The Sphere (26 page)

“There’s nothing, Eurydice. Don’t bother looking.”

Sherlock and Morgan discuss something with the Count. I don’t pay attention; all of my attention is trained on the handkerchief. I pick it up discreetly and slip it into my pocket.

“I must ask you to forgive me, but it has gotten a little late, and I have some urgent matters I must attend to,” says Beatrice, interrupting as gently as she possibly can.

It must be the time she usually goes to the hospital to comfort the sick. Sherlock turns to her, stiff and worried. Now I can see quite clearly what he’s thinking.

“My dear lady, allow me to accompany you.”

“Don’t worry about me. It’s important for you to finish speaking with the Count. I wouldn’t want to cause you to leave any loose ends.”

Some insufferable pleading follows, from Beatrice and Sherlock both. She begs him to let her go by herself; he tries to convince her not to. Sherlock outdoes himself with cloying phrases; he simply can’t imagine his lovely lady walking alone through the streets of the Sphere, even though it’s broad daylight and there are plenty of Sphereans out and about. I wonder where his interest in the investigation went. I even suspect that it might be another strategy for getting more information out of the Count, but I can see from Morgan’s face that it isn’t. She can read Sherlock’s mind, and she gestures wildly at me, incredulous. He really is willing to cut the discussion with the Count short just to go with Beatrice.

“My lovely lady, at least allow me to go with you to the boundaries of this property.”

The boundaries of this property?
Sherlock reaches amazing new heights of pretentiousness every time he talks to Beatrice. Really? What’s going to happen to her—the bugs in the garden will eat her alive?

“My butler shall accompany her,” says Dracula.

“That’s more than enough,” murmurs Morgan.

“At any rate, we must inspect the gardens,” says Sherlock with a show of professionalism. “So we shall accompany you to the gate and complete our examination.”

The Count seems amused by the sugary scene. Or is he amused by me? For a moment I got the sense that I was the one causing his hint of a smile. I guess my thoughts must have shown themselves too clearly on my face. We walk toward the library amid compliments and fussing, pleases and thank-yous.

“Search the gardens, that was just what I was going to suggest, Holmes,” says Morgan.

So clever! Wanting to show off, like always. She’s worse than usual today. The superior way she told me not to bother looking in the coffin... And now what is all that laughter about? Is Morgan flirting with Sherlock, or does it just seem like it? She’s taken his arm! Correction: she’s squeezing the fabric of his sleeve. I hope they don’t find anything in the garden. Here’s hoping some angry insect attacks her...

“For the good of the missing people, we should hope that they find some clue, don’t you think, miss? And my insects, although they may not seem it, are quite good-natured. They would never attack anyone, least of all a fairy.”

The Count’s voice is slow and deliberate, but I jump, startled. Everyone has gone out. We’re alone.

“By the way, did you know that only Watson, his assistant, calls Holmes Sherlock? He must feel very close to you to let you call him that.”

I feel my cheeks start to burn. What’s happening to me?

“Does it disappoint you that you’re not the only one who uses that name?”

Well, yes. My inner voice tells me that even though I hadn’t thought about it, I did think that Sherlock was a name that only I used.

“Watson uses that name, too,” adds the Count casually.

He takes out a wooden box and sits down on the chair where he was crying before. He opens the box and takes out a soft cloth, with which he begins to polish his collection of letter openers, small gleaming daggers encrusted with jewels. Can he know what I’m thinking? The Count nods, still polishing. No, it’s not possible. No one can read someone else’s mind. It has to be a coincidence... Dracula shakes his head.

“Ah, jealousy!” the Count sighs. “Heavy burden. Unbearable. Unnecessary, too, in your case, since you’re not obligated to conform to a role.”

“Excuse me?” I exclaim. “I do too have a role... like everyone else.”

The Count tilts his head to one side. Who is the Count? Or rather,
what
is he? How can he read my mind and know that I don’t have a role?

“You are young enough yet that jealousy hasn’t put down roots. Allow me to advise you to rip it out before it’s too late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I try to make my mind go blank. Now I understand Sherlock’s meditative state during the first part of the visit. The Count reads minds. How does Sherlock keep from thinking about anything?

“It’s a question of training,” the Count lifts his face and smiles at my surprise. “But let’s return to our discussion. Jealousy is the worst of weeds, believe me. It first appears as an innocent little sprout, but once it grows strong it will devour everything good around you. It’s like a climbing plant that tries to cling to the person who stirs up the feeling in us, to try and keep that person always by our side. But jealousy tangles itself around the feet of the person who feels it, and it is the jealous person who will end up strangled.”

“I’m not jealous of anyone.”

I don’t know if I’m just confused because of what the Count is saying, or if his words have made me angry. Jealous—me? Of whom?

“Forgive me. Sometimes this old man is mistaken. In that case it will not help if I tell you that although this feeling is useless enough on its own, it is even more so in this concrete case. Holmes, or Sherlock, as you call him, loves nothing but his profession. He will never love anyone else.”

“But—Beatrice?...” The question bursts out of me.

“Is it Beatrice who worries you?”

“It’s really Sherlock who worries me. I think Beatrice is the woman who suits him least in the world. But whatever, it’s his life. He knows best. I’m not jealous of anyone.”

“Interesting...” the Count looks up from his letter openers and smiles.

“I think someone less superstitious would be better for Sherlock, a more intellectually active woman... someone more like him.”

“Morgan would be ideal. And it seems she is up to the task. More than one has fallen for the charms of the fairy-witch here in the Sphere.”

The Count’s smile stretches out across his entire face. The skin that was wrinkled with pain when he spoke of Mina’s disappearance has recovered its elasticity. Now his face is young, smooth as wax—almost attractive.

“What do you think of Morgan for Sherlock?”

Morgan! That presumptuous know-it-all. Is that why she’s always trying to show off? I thought she just wanted to help with the case! I feel tiny; I know I’m nobody next to her. I feel my bad temper bubble up as the familiar feeling comes back, that feeling I know so well from my previous life: being nobody. I can’t compete with Morgan’s charms.

“That is what we call jealousy,” says the Count. “You can learn to live with it, that’s one option. Although my advice is not to fall for it... It’s curious. Ironic, even.”

I look at him, perplexed.

“You punishing yourself, seeing Morgan as a rival. The reverse would be more natural. She has always been so powerful, and now an outsider arrives and dethrones her—just like that. You have the charm of being different, don’t you see?” The Count looks right at me. His empty eye sockets are two whirlpools pulling me in, I can’t stop myself. I look around for something solid to hold on to, but then the Count blinks, and the tugging feeling goes away. “Heed my words. Do not hold out hope for love with someone as rational as Holmes. As I have told you already, he will never love any woman. His only lover is mystery itself. Yes, I know how it seems with Beatrice, but in the end that is nothing more than a game to exercise his agile mind. Beatrice consecrates her life to her Creator; she will never love Holmes... Nor does he hope for her to. Do you think that if one day she decided to reciprocate, he would be pleased?” The Count laughs gently. “I cannot imagine Holmes in a domestic role.”

“But Beatrice...”

“No, I cannot envision Beatrice in a role like that, either. Her role is solitary, never coupled.”

“But she does everything she can for Heathcliff. It’s almost like she’s in love with him... I think she is in love with him, even though I can’t see how she could care for someone so rude, so...”

“So unlike herself? Why does a moth flutter toward the flame of a candle, even as it feels the scorching heat that warns of death?”

“It can’t help it?”

“Just so,” answers the Count. “They cannot help it. The moth flies happily to its destruction. That is the beauty of attraction. Between opposites it is inevitable. Beatrice is so ethereal that it is normal for her to be attracted by Heathcliff’s darkness.”

“I understand...” I say thoughtfully. “But I think it could be different. Really I think it
should
be different.” I’m thinking about myself and about Axel. “That way there wouldn’t be suffering. You could be smart, and look for someone like you.”

“Try it,” answers the Count.

He gets up from the armchair and puts away the box of letter openers. He takes out a bottle and pours a small cup, which he offers to me. The color of the liquid is pleasant and familiar, though I can’t identify it.

“Ginger,” says the Count. “Do pardon me for a moment. I have something to attend to, but I will return shortly.”

I nod and try a taste of the liqueur once I’m alone. Ginger, yes. After one sip my senses grow clouded and I can’t keep my eyes open. The flavor of spices runs through my veins, gently lulling me. Now I remember. Now I know where I’ve tasted this before. I see lights spinning in the dark night; I feel snowflakes falling softly on my face; the heat in my throat as it flows down to warm my frozen body.

Mulled wine with spices. The Ferris wheel. The carols of a little group singing in one of the stalls mingled with the murmur of the crowd and the raucous music of the rides. I was born in Edinburgh, but I had always refused to go to the Christmas market. Well, I had refused once I was old enough to have an opinion. I went with my parents when I was so little that I don’t have any conscious memory of it. I had a photograph of myself in my mother’s arms, with the Ferris wheel and the castle in the background. In it you could barely see my eyes, hidden between my scarf and hat—my smiling eyes. My mother used to say that my eyelashes were smiling in that photo. For years, before the twins were born, I’d ask my mother night after night to tell me about the time my eyelashes smiled. She told the story of that night with such detail—the sounds, the smells, what I did—that my little heart rejoiced. It was a story that made me feel happy, and connected to my mother. I felt lucky to share such a special little piece of life with her. Later on the twins arrived, and the photograph was forgotten, along with everything else from that period. It was as if that entire era had disappeared. The twins were too restless, needing constant attention; they were too magnetic, too alive. They left nothing unbroken around them. The little scrap of paper with my smiling eyelashes was relegated to the drawer of my night table, and my parents never missed it.

Who could’ve imagined that I would go back to the Christmas market voluntarily! All my memories from the second night are firsthand. No one had to tell them to me as we looked at a photo. It was the first time I saw Axel since we’d met at the pub. When my cellphone rang I was with Marion. I had no idea who the unknown number could be.

“The boy from the pub!” I whispered to Marion, covering the phone with my hand.

She squeezed my arm tight and began to shake me, her other hand clapped to her mouth.

“But he didn’t even get your number!!”

I shrugged and waved at her to be quiet, but Marion couldn’t contain herself:

“No way! Unbelievable! No
way
!”

“To the Christmas market?...” I said, making a face at her.

Marion urged me to say yes, nodding her head so hard she almost gave herself whiplash.

“Sure,” I said, without much enthusiasm.

Marion began contorting her face silently, opening her mouth wide like a fish with its face squashed against the side of the tank, then pursing it tight. She pointed frantically at my phone.

“What?!” I asked angrily, once I’d hung up.

“Dammit, Dissie, his friend—you were supposed to ask about his friend. Didn’t he say anything? Didn’t he ask about me?”

I didn’t answer. My mind had gone blank. Axel had suggested going to the market—what else could I do? It wasn’t the best place in the world, and I didn’t even know why I had accepted, it was just automatic. Maybe it was Marion’s fault; she had distracted me so much I couldn’t think.

“Geez, we could have gone together, the four of us. We would’ve had an awesome time. You know how much I like the market...”

Marion’s voice was a distant echo mingling with my thoughts. I couldn’t remember Axel’s face clearly, only the feeling of singing with him as we made our way across the cobblestones of downtown Edinburgh, trying not to trip. It was a vague image, but a nice one. Marion’s words had lost their shape; they sounded like the distorted sound of a helicopter in the distance.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked sulkily.

“Oh... Yeah... No, Axel didn’t ask after you. He didn’t say anything about his friend. Sorry.”

I don’t know why I did it, but I said yes, and there I was at the Christmas market again. Behind us old Edinburgh castle on its tall rocky hill looked down on the crowd, full of joy, and on me—full of distaste. I didn’t understand what I was doing there. I had always considered myself smart enough not to fall for the easy excitement of a holiday imposed by the calendar. I blew on my hands and rubbed them together to warm them up a little. Axel smiled much too broadly. He walked briskly around, stopping in the stalls with wooden toys and chatting with the vendors. As they talked their breath rose in white spirals, twining in the icy air, dancing past my scowling face.