The vertigo was rising once again. Desdemona had to shut her eyes and wait for the world to get back on its axis. She inhaled deeply and then asked, “Celeste, why did you look so happy then? Describe the voice to me.”
“It just sounded funny.”
“The voice sounded funny? Explain.”
“Just funny, that’s all. Like it was talking underwater. Can I have the rest of my cake now?”
“Hmm? Yes, fine. But not in the dining hall! Eat it in the kitchen, please. And when you’re done I’d like you to amuse yourself for a while. I have some things of my own to do.”
“What things?” asked Celeste.
“Personal things,” she said.
The things to which Desdemona was referring were primarily sneaking back to the vault and digging up Mother’s card, but the fainting spell had taken far more out of her than she’d first realised and Desdemona instead spent the remainder of the afternoon drifting in and out of sleep.
Celeste, thankfully, remained within earshot and amused herself with various games and songs. At one point she even joined her older sister in the sitting room where she proceeded to play solitaire. Desdemona was grateful that Celeste was able to keep herself occupied but the sight of her carefully laying out cards unnerved her just the same.
She was about to ask Celeste to check the grandfather clock on the stair-head to confirm the time when the sound from somewhere beyond the rear of the house became apparent to them both. At first, a gentle purling noise, but gradually swelling to a rumbling.
Celeste leapt to her feet. Familiarity led both sisters to conclude that this was the sound of a boat’s motor.
Mother and Father had returned.
*
For the second time that day, Celeste went bounding through the large doors of the great house. Again, she managed to push back the great cedar barriers. She ran like a hare to where the water greeted the stones.
The motorboat was still far enough from shore that its passengers were little more than specks. By now Desdemona had followed her sister down to the stout dock where the motorboat stayed moored. Celeste was already at the end of the dock, down on her hands and knees. She was spreading crisp the length of white linen. A large wooden bowl was lying topside down near her blackened feet.
“Where’s the water?” Celeste cried once she saw that Desdemona was arriving empty-handed. She huffed and, rising, said, “I’ll do it. I have to do everything.”
“No, I’ll do it,” said Desdemona, collecting the wooden bowl from the dock. “You stay here and watch for the boat.”
Celeste was practically bouncing. “They’re almost here!”
Desdemona turned and made her way up the hill and to the right, where the water well sat rotting among the weeds. Its shingled steeple covering hung crooked, held in place only by a lone tenacious nail. The rope that held the bucket was frazzled and dirty and thin. The less said of the state of the water bucket the better.
These blemishes notwithstanding, Desdemona maintained the actions as they’d been taught to her by Mother and Father. She took up the rope and dragged the bucket from its bed of greenery. She flung it down into the pit and waited for the plash. When it came Desdemona felt her shoulders slouch, for now she had to operate the horrible crank. Carefully she gripped the splintery handle and began to draw up the bucket. This evening’s yield was meagre, which in one sense was a blessing, for it meant less strain on the ancient crank, but also ominous; a sign that the ancient well may finally be running dry.
She pulled the swinging bucket from the spool and poured out the water into the waiting bowl before returning the bucket to its nest among the plants Father had cultivated with great care.
Experience allowed her to carry the brimming bowl back to the dock without spilling a drop. The well water now in place upon the white linen, Desdemona joined her sister in watching the approaching boat.
It was now close enough for the sisters to see them; Mother and Father, she seated regally at the motorboat’s bow, he usefully stationed before the boat’s motor, manning the steering rod, guiding them toward shore. Desdemona saw the evening sun sparkle off Father’s horn-rimmed glasses. He appeared to be wearing one of his oversized sweaters, or something equally out of season for June. Mother wore a dress of the same cut as hers, but Mother’s was of a more luxuriant colour.
When the boat’s motor was switched off, Desdemona knelt down upon the white linen, alongside Celeste, who was already in position.
It was obvious that Father had spotted them, for his face beamed with delight. He waved excitedly before taking up an oar to paddle them into the slip. Mother’s hands remained folded upon her lap. She sat as still as a masthead until Father had moored the boat, stepped onto the stout dock, and offered her assistance.
Mother rose, then bent to retrieve a large wicker basket from the bottom of the boat. Clutching its handle with one hand, she took Father’s with the other and stepped carefully onto the dock. The daughters remained stoic, Desdemona more so than Celeste, who was trembling. Little peeps of excitement slipped through her lips. Desdemona elbowed her for fear that Mother would hear. Father clearly heard but did not care. In fact, his face beamed with pride. He winked at the younger daughter, then quickly pressed a finger to his lips to save face.
The daughters held up the bowl between them. Desdemona averted her eyes as per the ritual, but she could see that Celeste did not.
Mother and Father in turn rinsed their hands, then smeared a soaked fingertip over their foreheads and on the lids of their eyes. Father had to remove his glasses to complete this practice. Once Mother had walked her through the stages, Desdemona never once thought to question this ritual of arrival in any way. Celeste, however, when her time came to learn, grilled Mother (to no avail) then Father for every detail behind every step. Later that same night, while they were in their beds, Desdemona had interrogated Celeste to learn what she had learned. All Celeste had told her was that Father said this practice was a way of washing off the world.
Now suitably cleansed, Mother gestured for the girls to rise and together the quartet made their way up the stony walkway toward the house. Mother entered through the rear door. She was the only one to ever use this access. Once she had been subsumed by the great house, Father paused to embrace each sister. In particular he fawned over Celeste, which neither surprised nor pained Desdemona. That Celeste was Father’s favourite was a fact often demonstrated.
“I can’t say how pleased I am to see you both,” he said. “You look so well and so present. Did we leave you with everything you needed this time?”
“We could use more cake,” Celeste said.
“My dear Celeste, we both know that this old place could be packed to the rafters with sweets and you would still hanker for more,” said Father. He winked and kissed the top of her head, then took both sisters by the hand and led them to the main entrance. At the double doors he stopped and spoke softly. “Mother has planned a Dumb Supper for tonight, so you both know what is required, yes?”
Desdemona said, “Yes, Father.”
“These suppers are dumb all right,” said Celeste.
“Hush!” ordered Desdemona.
Father raised his thick red hands and the girls grew instantly silent. “They do look a little silly, Celeste, I know. But is a thing only how it appears?”
“No.”
“Correct. And we know, don’t we, that, silly or not, Mother’s Dumb Suppers are effective. So we shall all go inside and keep quiet and then tomorrow we shall talk and hike and do all kinds of things.”
“You and Mother are spending the night?” cried Celeste delightedly.
“If that is acceptable to you.”
“Of course it is!” she blurted.
Father was about to grip the iron handles of the doors when revelation struck Desdemona. Panic gripped her coldly.
“Father, wait!”
He gave Desdemona an inquisitive look.
“Who is tonigh
t’s fifth guest?” she asked.
“Your Mother hasn’t told me. Why?”
Her experience in the dining hall came gushing out of her in a frenzied, desperate torrent. Father listened calmly, stoically. “If Mother’s invitation to the Supper is an open one, we could be in danger, Father.”
“Are you frightened?” he asked her.
“I am.”
Father removed his glasses, and, with all the oily grace of an illusionist, produced a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He cleaned the lenses and returned the spectacles to the perch of his nose.
“I understand your concern. But some things are beyond our control. Fate is fate. You recall the fable of the Appointment in Samarra?”
“Oh! That’s my favourite! Will you tell it to us? Please!” begged Celeste.
“Again?” asked Father.
Celeste clasped her hands together. “Please!”
Father gestured to the stone bench that stretched between the Grecian columns of flaking stone. They sat and he began to tell the tale.
“Once upon a time there lived a wealthy man in Baghdad. One fine morning this man sent his servant to the marketplace to purchase provisions. A little while later the servant came tearing up the lane and into his master’s palace. He was pale and trembling and he was empty-handed. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ cried the wealthy man. ‘Where are my provisions? Where is the money I gave to you?’
“‘Forgive me, Master,’ the servant pleaded. ‘I dropped your money and I made no purchase, for I have experienced something terrible!’
“‘What is it, boy? Pray tell!’
“‘I saw Death, Master. It was there, in the marketplace. I saw Death. It came in the form of a woman, all veiled in sheer black. She saw me and she howled at me and she made a threatening gesture with her awful hand! I fled, Master. I ran all the way back. But Death has found me. I beg your help, Master. I plead with you: loan me one of your horses so that I may flee my Fate.’ ‘But where shall you go?’ asked the wealthy man. ‘I shall travel all the way to Samarra. If I ride all night I should arrive there by daybreak.’
“The wealthy man loaned his servant a horse, and the servant drove his spurs into the creature’s flanks and sped off.
“Aggravated that he must now fend for himself, the wealthy man travelled to the marketplace and there he found Death drifting amongst the throngs of people. He approached Her and said, ‘Why did you threaten my man this morning?’
“Death looked at the wealthy man. ‘I made no threat,’ she said in a voice as cold and certain as a tombstone. ‘My reaction was one of surprise. You see, I did not expect to find your servant here in the marketplace, for I have an appointment with him tomorrow in Samarra…’”
Celeste began to applaud, while Desdemona felt a tangled net of helplessness fall across her heart.
Father stood.
“I love, love, love that story!” said Celeste.
“What do you think it means, Celeste?” Father asked.
“That Death is a woman.”
“That’s one interpretation, yes. Desdemona, would you like to give your sister the moral of this story?”
“It means you cannot hide from Fate.”
Father inhaled as though this statement were a draft from paradise. “Indeed,” he said before rising. “Let us go in. Not a single word once we step through those doors, yes?”
The girls nodded and, mutely, followed Father inside.
*
Celeste’s game of pretending it was night-time was no longer required, for the dining hall was now a black sea, broken by two islands of candlelight. The tapers illuminated the sparse settings that had been laid out on the table: one for Father, Mother, each of the sisters, and the fifth guest, unnamed and unknown. When Desdemona discovered that her place card had been set next to the fifth guest’s chair her panic was renewed. Fate or not, a second encounter with whatever had peered at her from behind the draperies was an experience she would give anything to avoid.
Mother emerged from the kitchen bearing cooked fish and potatoes and a bottle of white wine. The family seated themselves according to the place cards Mother had set for them. Seeing her serve the bounty was like watching a silent film; her motions dramatic, not for pageantry, but to ensure noiselessness. Mutely each received their portion and the Dumb Supper commenced by Mother’s execution of a series of gestures, eleven in total: arrival, envelopment, accepting, beckoning, welcoming, benediction, assessment, attainment, communion, thanksgiving, and departure.
In between each gesture were spans of knives slicing meat, wine swallowed loudly (and, in the case of Celeste, with a sour expression and the jutting of a tongue), and scrutiny of the vacant chair beside Desdemona, the one spot at the table where the candlelight seemed unable to reach.
The meal stretched interminably, for every pop of wood, each lively hiss of the candle, any waxing shadow, resulted in an immediate halting of all action while Mother practically stood, her hand extended over the table, eyes wide as the dinner plates that decorated the table.
It was during one such tense interlude that the voice pulsated through the house. It chugged through the ancient, rust-laden plumbing. The pipes amplified what would have otherwise been a faint breeze of sound into a veritable rumble. Desdemona regarded it as something every bit as awful as the cries of one lost at sea.
Everyone in the family heard this sound. Desdemona turned to Mother. The expression on her face froze her.
Mother’s mouth was a frozen scream. At first Desdemona thought this was a mask of rage and was directed at her, but instead it was a reaction of fear, the first time Mother had ever shown such an emotion.
Desdemona found herself incapable of looking to where Mother was staring. She could not bring herself to see it, not again. She was on the verge of crying out, of asking Mother what it was she was seeing, when Celeste lunged across the table in an attempt to silence her sister. Father slammed his hand down on the table. The thud and clatter broke the awful spell.
The tension was eventually broken after Mother sat back down and dabbed her tearful eyes with a napkin.
Father slid a dish down the table toward Celeste. It was covered with a lace doily, which the younger girl swiftly removed.
When she saw the dish filled with butter and honey, she beamed at Father and drew a heaping spoonful to her mouth.
By the time Mother executed the gestures of thanksgiving Desdemona was desperately tired. The vow of silence had to stretch until midnight, so Desdemona did not bother having to excuse herself.
Her bed felt marvellous beneath her, so cozy in the chilly evening that Desdemona felt weightless. She must have dozed off, for she didn’t even realise Celeste had gone to bed until she heard “Psst! Pssst!” inside the darkened room.
Desdemona bolted up and shook her head.
“It’s okay, we can talk again. It’s past midnight. The wiiiiittching hour…” Celeste said, her fingers wiggling as she performed what she called her ‘spooky hands.’
Desdemona could hear the rustle of sheets from across the room. She rolled over to see Celeste propped up on one arm.
“I wonder what life is like there,” said Celeste in a raspy half-whisper.
“Where?”
“The place in Mother’s cards. It looks so much more interesting than this world.”
“Don’t be childish. Those cards are from this world. They’re just paintings.”
“Well I know that! But where was the painter looking when they made those pictures do you think?”
Desdemona replied flatly, “They weren’t looking anywhere. Except maybe their own imagination.”
Celeste slumped back onto her mattress. Desdemona could just discern her silhouette staring up at the turret room’s domed ceiling. “I wish somebody would paint pictures up there. That ceiling is too white. It’s boring. I wish it had pictures like Mother’s cards, pictures of towers and knights and gold cups.”
“It’s late. Go t
o sleep.”
For a time the room’s only score was the tranquil sound of a cool night breeze jostling the sheers. The air cascaded over Desdemona and she could smell the fresh perfume of the tide, of slaked earth. She was being lulled and she was thankful for it. All evening her anxiety (and no doubt her guilt) had been mounting over what they had done that day. Her fear was not over potentially being caught by Mother, but by how the little ritual seemed to have impacted Celeste. Being able to read her sister as well as she could, Desdemona knew that Celeste would awaken tomorrow and be every bit as fixated on the buried card as she had been today. The question now was, how to redirect her attention?
With the storm now fully passed, tomorrow would be unwaveringly bright, conducive to keeping Celeste outdoors and active. Mother would never discover what they had done because Desdemona had decided hours ago that once everyone in the house was asleep, she would sneak out to the vault and dig up the card. She’d hide it under her pillow until after Mother and Father left again. Then she would clean the card and secretly return it to the deck. After that it would just be a matter of keeping Celeste focused on other, less ephemeral things.
All would soon be righted. It was now just a matter of waiting for sleep to claim her family.
The breeze pressed through the room again, then again, as rhythmic as the nearby surf. Desdemona closed her eyes, but only to bask in the delicious calm. The quixotic tide managed to buoy her and to coax her, ever-so-gently, out to sea. Sometime during her voyage, the tide turned violent. Desdemona now felt her body being tossed and jerked. She opened her eyes and immediately squeezed them shut again. Gone was the soft darkness; it had been overtaken by keen light, and the genial night wind had been mangled into stifling gusts, like furnace blasts through the open windows.
“Wake up, Desi! Come see!” Celeste was at her bedside, clumsily grasping at her nightgown. “Come on!”
Abandoning her struggle, Celeste charged for the bedroom door. Desdemona had yet to sit up when she heard the rumble of her sister’s frantic footsteps on the great staircase. She was about to call for her sister when she noticed that the door to Mother and Father’s chamber was shut. They must be sleeping still.
Grotesquerie Page 23