But she did it anyway.
Marcus reached the end of that page’s music and he nodded to her. Magdalena turned the page.
Immediately Marcus’s fingers faltered on the keys, a terrible atonal noise, and then all the sound ceased.
Marcus reached out with both hands and lifted the photograph.
“How?” he asked. It was all he asked.
“Six months ago you said, and I quote, ‘I would give anything to know if Kingsley is alive. That’s all I want to know. I don’t need to know how he is, where he lives, what he’s doing, and I don’t want to know. But if I knew he was alive, I could sleep better at night. I could be at peace.’ Do you remember saying that to me?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded hollow as a reed.
She rested her chin on his shoulder, smiled and pointed. “You see the marquee there? It says Monstre Sacré? That’s a student film and it played in that theater for only two days as part of a competition. And that was ten days ago. So, as of ten days ago, your Kingsley was alive and well. That is him, isn’t it?”
She looked at the eight-by-ten photograph in Marcus’s hands, the photograph she had placed between the pages of sheet music for him to find. A young man in a long coat was walking toward the camera, a scarf tied carelessly around his neck. A tall young man with sharp and elegant features, short dark hair with a touch of wave in it, and eyes like a cat’s—enigmatic, watching, careful, predatory. Luckily for the photographer, a telephoto lens could see farther than those eyes.
Slowly Marcus nodded and in a low voice, a voice she could barely hear, he whispered, “Yes, it’s him.”
“He’s more handsome than you are. You have good taste in boys, Bambi.”
“He’s not handsome. He’s beautiful.”
Abruptly, Marcus stood up and walked away from her, the photograph in his hand, his eyes on the page. She turned on the bench, wanting to watch his every move, his every expression. He paced the floor of her bedroom, back and forth in front of the fireplace, stalking across the tile like a caged leopard gone mad from captivity and therefore all the more dangerous.
“How did you find him?” he asked, not looking at her, only at the photograph.
“I hired someone. I knew your boy’s name and the arrondissement he grew up in. It took all six months—he’s not an easy one to find.”
Marcus sat on the end of her bed but stood up again as if he’d sat on a spring. “His hair is short. I’ve never seen it short. Why would he cut his hair?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he had to cut if off for his work.”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where does he live? Is he in Paris now? Is he in school? He’s intelligent. He should be in university.”
“I don’t know where he lives. I didn’t ask.”
He turned to face her. “Why not?” he demanded.
“Because I didn’t want to know. If I knew, I’d be tempted to tell you. And you said that all you wanted to know was if he was alive. So that’s what I’m giving you for Christmas—proof of life. His life. He lives. I can’t answer any other questions about him.”
“But you could have found out for me?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t? Why? To torture me?”
“Of course.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Oh…poor Bambi.” She shook her head, tsk-tsked him. “I know it hurts. Every boy who falls in love the first time thinks he invented the concept. I’ve been in love too. I know what torture it is. But I’m not merely torturing you—although I am. I wanted to teach you a lesson. If you’re going to make wishes, you should learn to ask for what you want, not what you think you should want. You wanted to know if he was alive. That’s all. So that’s what I gave you.”
She crossed her legs and rested her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand. She smiled and wondered if he would strike her. It wouldn’t surprise her if he did. That smile she wore had caused more than one man in the past to attempt to slap it off her face. Those men failed, of course, and one of them lost use of that slapping hand for his trouble.
In two long strides, Marcus traversed the floor from fireplace to piano bench, stopping unnervingly close to her. She braced herself.
He bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips. So lightly it was like being kissed by a bird’s wing. Her lips tingled as if they’d been tickled.
“Thank you for my Christmas gift, Magda.”
“You’re quite welcome, Bambi.” She patted the piano bench and he sat next to her again, the photograph still clutched in his hands.
“Can I keep this?” he asked.
“It is yours, but let’s keep it here at the house. For your own sake, dear.” She patted his knee and he allowed it, his grief for his long-lost lover making him a child again. He leaned his head on her shoulder and she kissed the top of his head. “Don’t you think it should stay with me?”
He inhaled deeply and nodded.
“But you can visit it anytime,” she said. “You can keep my house key.”
He nodded again and sat up straight as if suddenly remembering he was a grown man and should act like it. Poor lamb. From the tension in his jaw, she could tell he wanted to weep, but his pride wouldn’t allow it.
“He’s smoking,” he said. “He shouldn’t smoke.”
Magdalena noticed for the first time that the young man in the photograph, Marcus’s Kingsley, held a cigarette between two fingers of his right hand. A Gauloise by the looks of it—the soldier’s breakfast. She’d lied to Marcus. Nothing new there, of course. She lied to him all the time. Two years ago, Kingsley Théophile Boissonneault had joined the French Foreign Legion, which is why he’d been so difficult to track down (La Legion were often deployed). It was why he’d cut his hair; it was why she didn’t tell Marcus what Kingsley did for a living. Learning Kingsley had joined the French Army would hardly give Marcus the peace he sought.
“Of course he smokes,” she said. “He’s French. And besides, I smoke. When have you ever complained?”
“You’re not Kingsley.”
“So I can give myself lung cancer, but he can’t.”
“I would never have given him permission to start smoking. I would have refused to kiss him. That would have made him quit.”
“Ah…young love. Ordering your lover to change to suit you. It’s cute when you’re a teenager. Not nearly as much as you get older. But what would you know of that? You’ll never fall in love again, will you?”
“No, I won’t.”
Magdalena smiled to herself, but didn’t tease him. She’d done enough of that tonight.
“You’re right, he really is a beautiful young man,” she said, looking at the photograph. “Wonderful bone structure. A good Greek nose. And those lips… I would have bitten that bottom lip until it looked like a bee had stung it.”
“I did bite his lips. Not hard. I couldn’t leave marks where others would see them. Or I tried not to. I failed a few times.”
“On purpose?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“But you aren’t sure?”
He shook his head.
“Well…” she said. “I’ve had many a client ‘accidentally on purpose’ wear a lipstick-stained shirt collar home to his wife in the subconscious hope of getting caught cheating.”
“It wasn’t that. All the students at school were afraid of me,” he said. “I admit I cultivated that fear. I didn’t enjoy it but it was for the best I kept myself apart from them. For their sake and mine. But with Kingsley…he loved me. I wanted everyone to know someone could love me. And that I could love. I don’t think they would have believed it even if Kingsley shouted it from the rooftops. They’d already made their minds up about me. Only Kingsley saw me as I am, not as I wanted to be seen.”
“That must have driven you mad—being infiltrated, having all your defenses breached.”
“I wanted to strangle him for pursuing m
e, not for the usual reasons I’d place my hands around someone’s neck. Although…” He stopped and smiled as if remembering something dark and something beautiful. “I swear I did everything I could to discourage him. I almost broke his wrist the first time he kissed me. He kissed me without asking first, and I pushed him off me and onto the bed, held him down by his wrists. I heard one pop. It…”
“It aroused him.”
“It did. I could see it in his eyes. He almost came from it. I knew I’d found someone like me. The one.”
“There’s more than one.”
“There’s only one Kingsley.”
“There’s more than one masochist in the world. Trust me. I have most of them in my Rolodex.”
“I know there are. I know…”
He lowered his head for a moment as if praying.
“You will see him again,” Magdalena said.
“Is this another prophecy of yours? You know, in the book of Deuteronomy, we’re instructed to put false prophets to death.”
“Not a prophecy. I simply know you’ll see him again. Somewhere, someday…”
“I want to believe that. And yet, I don’t want to.”
“The love is in the waiting,” she reminded him. “Come, finish playing my song for me.”
“If I can.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
Marcus held up his hands in front of him. They were shaking. She knew how he felt. All too well.
“Let’s have more wine,” she said. “That’s what we both need.”
She stood up and paused at a sound she hadn’t expected to hear—a knock on the door.
“Who on earth…”
“It’s your Christmas gift,” Marcus said. “Your other Christmas gift. I’ll play for you later.”
He stood up and headed for the door. She didn’t follow.
“What did you give me?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
“Something you will probably hate.”
“You make me curious.”
“Can you trust me long enough to at least see if you want your gift?”
“No, but I suppose I have to.”
He held out his hand, which surprised her. He didn’t seem the handholding sort of man. She reached out but he pulled his hand back at the last second.
“You bastard,” she said.
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Jesuit. Now come with me or you’ll never get your gift.”
She raised her hands in surrender. “Very well. But if this isn’t the best gift I’ve ever been given, I’m banishing you from the house until after New Year’s Day.”
“That’s six days away.”
“New Year’s Day of 2015.”
For all her consternation, she was rather curious, so she followed him from her bedroom and down the steps to the parlor.
“I’ll get the door,” Marcus said. “You stay here.”
“You’re telling me what to do in my own house?”
“Yes.”
He left her alone in the parlor. To say she was irritated would be an understatement. It was a good thing Marcus was such a pretty boy or she wouldn’t allow him such liberties. She really should stop spoiling him. In fact, if this gift disappointed her, she would likely insist he submit to her in a much more meaningful way if he wanted to keep coming to her house, eating her food, and playing with Caterina. She’d make him her footstool. She’d make him cook for her. She’d make him bathe her and shave her legs for her. With his straight razor.
Marcus walked back into the parlor and much to her surprise, he had a man with him. A man of about forty years of age, salt and pepper hair, wearing a cassock.
“You brought me a priest for Christmas?” she asked, glaring at Marcus.
“Magdalena, I’m pleased to introduce you to Father Stuart Ballard, my confessor. Stuart, this is Magda, my other confessor.”
She smiled. “I’m also a prostitute and the madam of a brothel, Father Ballard. Are you sure you should be here?”
“My God, your English is flawless,” Father Ballard said, grinning broadly, a kindly grin, fatherly almost. “You even speak with an English accent. Bit of Yorkshire in there. How on earth did you come by that?”
“When I was sixteen, my pimp sold me to the Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer. I learned English from him. And piano. He was quite proper when he wasn’t buggering underage prostitutes.”
Father Ballard seemed to digest this information. “Tory, I imagine.”
“However did you guess?”
“Thatcher’s been buggering the whole country.”
“Stuart,” Marcus said, his tone that of a son embarrassed by his father. “Politics is hardly an appropriate topic of conversation at Christmas. Or buggery.”
“You’re getting stuffy in your old age, lad,” Father Ballard said. “Christmas is nothing but politics. King Herod murdered Jewish toddlers because he didn’t want to lose his throne to the newborn king. If murdering Jewish people for power isn’t politics, I don’t know what is.”
“You must be quite a treat at Christmas parties,” Marcus said.
“I don’t go to Christmas parties, Marcus. Too many young people at them who have no concept of history.”
“He’s allowed to call you Marcus and I’m not?” she asked, glaring at Marcus but pointing at Father Ballard.
“He is not allowed to call me Marcus,” Marcus said. “He does it anyway.”
“I’ll just put my things over here on this table. You two talk. But talk loudly. I’ve missed hearing my native tongue.”
“Bambi, a moment please.”
“She calls you Bambi?” Father Ballard said, half-laughing. “No wonder you let me call you Marcus.”
“Marcus and I will be back momentarily. Forgive me. Marcus?” She grabbed Marcus’s ear, pinched it, and dragged him by it to the corner of the room.
“That was more painful than I imagined it would be,” he said after she released his ear. “I’ll try that on Caterina. I promised her I’d break her on New Year’s Eve.”
“Why is your priest in my house? And why is he putting napkins on my end table?”
“That’s a corporal and a purificator. He’s preparing to celebrate mass.”
“Mass? In my house?”
“Months ago you said, and I quote, ‘I will never step foot in a Catholic Church again after what my priest did to my family. If God wants me, He can send the Church to me.’ Since I’m not a priest yet, I can’t say mass, therefore I asked Stuart to come celebrate Christmas Midnight Mass at your home.”
“Your priest is here to say mass for me?”
“Yes.”
“Just me?”
“And the choirs of angels. Myself as well. I haven’t taken Communion yet today.”
“Mass. At my home. For Christmas. Said by a Jesuit priest.”
“If you’ll allow him to. He will leave if you ask.”
She put her hand to her forehead and turned her back to him.
“Magda?”
“Do you have any idea how much the Catholic Church has hurt me?”
“Yes, sorry about that.”
“Yes, so sorry,” Father Ballard called out from the other side of the room. He looked genuinely sheepish as he gave her a little wave.
“Sorry?” She spun back around. “I was called ‘demon seed’ by my priest when I was a thirteen-year-old child for doing nothing more than being a girl. My priest told my mother I needed an exorcism to save my soul. I had to run away from home to save myself and you know who took me in? A pimp. And he was kinder to me than the fucking priest was, and you say ‘Sorry’?”
“We’re very sorry?” Marcus said.
“May I speak with you a moment, Ma’am?” Father Ballard asked. “Please?”
“At least this one has something akin to manners,” she said. She crossed the room to where Father Ballard had set up his makeshift altar, Moussi at his feet watching him curiously.
“Yes?” she said to Father Ballard. “You
may speak.”
He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head a moment. When he lifted his head again, all trace of mirth, of amusement, was gone.
“Marcus has told me a little about you. Knowing what I know, I suppose I should have this conversation in a more penitent position.”
“Yes, you should.”
“Very well.” He slowly dropped to his knees.
“Stuart?” Marcus said.
“I have this, my boy. But thank you for your concern.” Father Ballard looked up at her from his kneeling position on the floor. “My dear lady, please allow me to apologize on behalf of my Church for the insults inflicted upon you and the damage done to you and your family. We clergy are far too human. And sometimes we are so human as to seem inhuman. There is no excuse for what your priest did and said to you as a child. None. And I will offer no excuse. God will punish that priest. I have long believed that when a child is harmed by an adult, that person stays a child in God’s eyes.” Father Ballard’s eyes glanced a moment in Marcus’s direction. “You are loved as a child, cosseted as a child, forgiven as a child, forgiven everything unconditionally because no good parent can stay angry at a small child for long. The Lord teaches us that the last shall be first. In your priest’s eyes you were last and lowly. In God’s eyes you will be first and honored.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Also, Marcus tells me you’ve taken him in and helped him come to terms with his many, many varied and sundry perversions—”
“I only have the one,” Marcus said.
Father Ballard ignored him. “Any woman who could put up with that,” he said, pointing at Marcus, “and treat him with even the smallest modicum of compassion—”
“Actually, she’s very mean to me.”
“Shut up, Marcus. Your betters are speaking,” Father Ballard said. Marcus stopped talking but his eyes communicated a great deal of information.
Winter Tales: An Original Sinners Christmas Anthology Page 20