The Collector of Dying Breaths (5 page)

Chapter 7

The door was opened by a tall, broad-shouldered man.

“I’m Serge Grise,” he said and held out his hand.

He wore corduroy pants and a matching turtleneck sweater. His hair was thick and chocolate brown.

Jac let go of the possibility this was the man she’d seen in the shadows and took in Serge’s face. He had slightly sad eyes. Strong cheekbones and a well-attenuated chin. The way his features came together was provocative and handsome.

“I hope you found us all right?” His English carried a French accent.

“Yes, perfect directions.”

He hesitated and then said, “I’m so very sorry about your brother. While he was working here, we spent quite a bit of time getting to know each other, and I came to like him very much.”

Jac nodded. Watched his face. Observed him instead of listened. She didn’t like to hear other people talk about Robbie. It forced her to think about him being gone. When no one mentioned him, she could pretend that he was off on another of his treks through the mountains in Tibet and that they’d meet back in Paris, at home, soon.

“I’ve been reading about Buddhism because of Robbie. It’s struck a real chord with me.”

Something about how Serge said her brother’s name made Jac wonder how close he and Robbie had been. Her brother always said he fell in love with people and then noticed what sex they were. It didn’t matter to Jac if this man and Robbie had been together—quite the opposite. Anyone who had been close to him, she wanted to keep close to her. She’d made a list of all his friends who got in touch with condolences. As if each had a small piece of him and by amassing their names she could one day rebuild him.

“We talked about me going with him on his next retreat. I’ve always rejected formal religion, but when Robbie spoke about his Buddhism, it was so appealing.” He gestured to the grand hall filled with elaborate decorations. “Though this is quite the opposite of a Buddhist retreat,” he said with a laugh. “We live here in excess.”

“It’s very beautiful excess,” Jac said.

And it was. The green marble floor, antique tapestries on the wall, heavy brass chandeliers glowing with soft light, and opulent vases of fragrant flowers were all in perfect harmony with one another. The great room to the right and the glimpse of the library all looked exquisitely decorated. Jac loved old houses, castles, ruins, cemeteries, burial sites, anything left behind in the quake of the passage of time.

Behind them, a white stone staircase, shaped like a double helix, rose toward the upper floors. Jac had seen a similar one, which legend said was designed by Leonardo da Vinci himself, at the Château de Chambord. There two separate staircases intertwined and rose three floors without meeting.

“It’s magical,” she said.

“Yes,” Serge said. “We’ve had experts examine them, and these stairs are in direct proportion to those at Chambord—just about thirty percent smaller.”

“That means this building goes back to the fifteenth century?”

“The original structure. With some additions and many renovations along the way. We still aren’t finished. I’ve been working on the reconstruction here for three years. The most extensive job I’ve ever undertaken. And one of the most complicated. There were so many mistakes to undo before we even could start restoring.”

“So you’re an architect?”

“I am.”

“Robbie mentioned you, actually. He told me that as a preservationist you were a perfectionist. He was very impressed with the house.”

Serge smiled, and Jac saw melancholy change his eyes, making them smaller for the moment. She couldn’t be sure how close they had become, but there was no question Serge had cared about her brother.

“Did you find Robbie? Did you hire him?”

“No. Melinoe, my stepsister, brought him in. I believe that a mutual friend of theirs, Malachai Samuels, introduced them.”

She was taken aback. Robbie had never told her how he came to accept this commission. Malachai? She knew so little about what Robbie was doing here. All he’d said was he was working on an experiment with Melinoe. Did it have something to do with reincarnation? Was Melinoe Cypros another disciple of Malachai Samuels?

No, Robbie, Jac said to herself. Whatever you started here, it isn’t something I have any interest in finishing.

“I don’t want to take you away from your work. I’m happy to just pack up Robbie’s things and be on my way.”

“Not at all. From what Robbie told me, I’m sure you’d be interested in seeing the house and some of the ruins on the grounds. Melinoe and I were hoping you’d stay and have lunch with us. Are you free?”

Jac was torn. She wouldn’t have minded going on the tour—the house fascinated her. But at the same time she was uncomfortable about staying now that she knew of Melinoe’s interest in the one subject Jac wanted to avoid.

“Robbie often said that he wanted to bring you up here so you could see some of the older areas we’ve discovered. Can I show you around now? Then after lunch you can collect his things.”

Jac’s fascination won out. If the conversation turned to past-life theory, she thought,
I’ll just not engage.

Serge led her down the main hall and into the living room. Everywhere Jac looked were multiples. The sign of an avid collector. There were not two Foo dogs on the mantel as one would expect, but six. There were four Fabergé eggs on an end table on one side of the couch.

Jac had of course heard of Melinoe; it was difficult not to have heard of her. The only daughter of a Greek shipping magnate who’d died when Melinoe was in her teens, she was still called the “Billionaire Orphan” by the press, even though she was now middle-aged.

Jac marveled at a grouping of a dozen architectural prints on the south wall. Palladian, she was certain. A Renoir hung over the grand fireplace. Two smaller ones on either side of the couch. Four van Gogh drawings of flowers, graphite on paper under glass, graced the north wall. One Aubusson rug covered the parquet floor under the couch; another Aubusson lay under the grand Bösendorfer piano near the windows. Scattered across its ebony surface were six Fabergé enamel frames set with semiprecious and precious stones. The photographs inside were all of a young girl with an older man. Jac guessed it was Melinoe with her father.

Alexander Cypros had been a renowned collector, and clearly his daughter had not only inherited his possessions but also his passions. A fashion icon, she was often on the international best-dressed lists and referred to as an eccentric for her outrageous costumes. Nothing was too outré or bizarre for Melinoe’s taste. When she was young, she’d been one of Yves Saint Laurent’s muses. She started more trends than she followed.

Now, being here, surrounded by the spoils of her fabulous fortune, Jac was even less surprised that Melinoe had charmed Robbie. He appreciated beauty, and clearly so did this collector. It wasn’t the value of these objects that struck Jac, but rather how exquisite each and every one was. Not just another drawing, but one that brought out the very essence of what made van Gogh such a master—and to have several of such quality. It was astonishing.

“We didn’t have to do much work here. This floor—the main rooms—had been altered the least over the centuries,” Serge said.

As he led her through a dining room, another drawing room, down hallways, she was in awe of all she saw. It was like being in a small museum. At the same time it was exhausting. Jac’s eyes were too full. She couldn’t take in the nuances of the pieces any longer.

They had reached the kitchen area.

“This is the only part of the house where Melinoe and I argued. She wanted it taken back to a true fifteenth-century kitchen. It would have been quite a conversation piece, but cooking here would have tried any chef. Modernism won. But there are several details I kept.”

The floor’s ancient marble tiles had been repaired but showed their age. The beams were scarred with dark burn marks and wormholes. The walls were made of thick plaster and crackled like a Renaissance oil painting.

“We’ve used some unusual methods to bring the room back to what it was, and then sealed it that way to prevent further destruction while allowing the look of it to stay,” Serge explained.

“I think it’s wonderful.”

“Do you like to cook?”

“Not much, actually.” She laughed. “But something about this kitchen is very inviting.”

“Your brother said the same thing.”

She felt a fresh stab of missing Robbie. “He loved to cook,” she said.

Serge nodded. “I know. He cooked for us several times. One evening Melinoe had a grand fete, and Robbie made us an amazing Moroccan tagine. He also made some French classics that were better than I’ve ever had in a restaurant.”

“He made his onion soup, then?” Jac asked.

“Yes!”

“It’s our great-grandmother’s recipe. We have a handwritten book of them. It wasn’t the most precise recipe, but it was always perfect.” She recited it. “ ‘One onion for every person. One knob of butter for every onion. Caramelize the onions. Then add one ladle of veal stock and one of white wine for every person and let it cook while you take care of the bread.’ ”

Serge laughed. “As long as you know what a knob of butter is, you’re fine.”

“No one ever did quite know. But Robbie was so good with intuiting measurements. It showed in his perfumes as well, of course.” Jac had wandered to the windows and looked out.

“That’s our vegetable garden,” Serge said. “With all this land, the wildlife, the sheep and the barn, the house is fairly self-sufficient.”

She turned around and noticed a door in the corner of the room. There was nothing special about it. Just a wooden door with a black glass doorknob, but something about it made her ask Serge what it led to.

“The cellar.”

“Could I see?”

He looked at her as if it was a strange request—and it probably was. So she told him more about her job. And how, as a mythologist, she researched old stories and tried to find their fountainhead. “I seem always drawn to the lower level,” she said. “Caves, cellars, crypts, tunnels . . . Over time we build up and over cities. The most interesting places are often those buried beneath our feet. Digging down, you find the past.”

“Well, there’s not much past down here,” he said as he led her toward a narrow staircase. The steps were marble, chipped and worn. The wooden handrail smooth but gouged in several places.

“The servants lived here, below the house. We use it for storage now. It would be an awful place to ask someone to sleep.”

They walked through a long hallway off of which was one small room after another. At the end they came to an iron door with a large keyhole.

“And through there?” Jac felt a stirring of excitement. The door was ancient. Certainly more than five hundred years old. Clearly this part of the house was the least restored.

“I’ll show you.” From his pocket Serge pulled out a key ring.

Jac was surprised that the door was locked. The skeleton key turned in the mechanism and creaked in a very particular way. Hearing the sound, Jac thought it sounded familiar. Often when she sensed something might have happened before, Jac obsessed over it, trying to figure it out and understand it.

“Don’t worry about what it all means, just live in the moment,”
Robbie would tell her.
“When you need to know more, it will reveal itself to you.”

But Jac didn’t like not knowing, wondering, feeling lost, imagining what the past foretold and what the future might be. She and Robbie weren’t alike that way. “
My beautiful dreamer
,” their mother had called her son. Jac had her feet on the ground. Even if that ground was deep down in the earth. Which was where they were heading now.

They were descending another staircase. This one was stone and spiral and even more narrow. Twisting, tortured steps turning on one another. The air was colder, and Jac shivered.

“Here we are,” Serge said as he turned on an overhead light—the only modern object in this ancient space. “This is the deepest part of the house. Where they kept wine and cold storage. The temperature never rises above twelve degrees Celsius.”

They stepped into the large cellar. The stone floor was cracked and splintered. The ceiling was all beamed and so low that Serge had to stoop. There were empty niches equipped with hooks lining the north wall. The west wall was outfitted with shelves filled with dusty bottles. Dark glass, covered with cobwebs, glistened in the lamplight. Jac guessed this wasn’t where they kept their drinkable wine. There were so many cobwebs in the corners it was obvious no one could keep up with cleaning. As soon as the webs were swept away, the spiders would spin them again at night. It was like her family’s cellar in Paris, which was not this elaborate or large but just as deep underground.

Suddenly Jac became aware of the scent. She expected to smell earth and mold, but instead was hit with a whole cacophony of wonderful fragrances—flowers and spices, most familiar but some unusual and unknown.

The air, almost freezing a moment ago, was warming and swirling around her. It was the same dreaded sensation she’d had since she was a little girl that foreshadowed the oncoming fugue state. And that, for the last twenty-two months, presaged what Malachai Samuels was certain were memories from her previous lives or other people’s lives.

Oh no. Not here. No matter what was coming—a hallucination or a past-life regression—Jac didn’t want it.

Malachai had taught her a series of quick exercises to keep her in the moment and block a memory lurch, and she practiced them now. The first rule was to get to a window for fresh air. Down here that was impossible. She started on the rest of the list . . . Inhale to the count of four . . . then hold to the count of four . . . then exhale to the count of four . . . then hold to the count of four. Concentrate on each number as you count . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . then focus on where you are. Feel what is under your fingers. What you are standing on. Look at your watch. Focus. In the dim light, she stared at it and forced herself to speak.

“What do you know about this space?” she asked Serge.