by Kit Brennan
“The infantas will.”
“But they are only ten and twelve years old. I can’t see—”
“Isabel is turning thirteen. She will soon be a woman, please God hear our prayers. Also, there are other operators. They will take you to a safe house should there be any danger. But there will be no danger. The princesses will love you—you must make sure of that.”
“And the names of these other operators?”
“Father de la Vega, of course. Also two of the rebel generals, de la Concha and de León. Be advised not to fall in love with them.”
I retorted, with dignity, “I would not. I have the heart of a tiger; I am quite fearless—” I was exaggerating shamelessly “—and I am steadfastly on the side of the Cristinos, which is the side of justice.” That sounded brave. “And what of my dancing?”
“You will dance, never fear.” This sounded ominous and must have showed in my face. He added quickly, “You are going to have a splendid success in my play. Come, once more.”
We took aim and fired again—two bulls-eyes!—then bowed formally to each other, pistols smoking.
“Very well, Rosana. With this extra week’s enforced practice, I now believe you are the quick study you claim to be. And, since you also claim to be a tiger, I will choose to believe that as well.”
Compliments indeed. I felt very proud.
“You leave in two days’ time.”
As I walked into my bedroom in the Grimaldi house late that afternoon, I saw that my new wardrobe had been delivered. And there, in her underclothes, stood Clotilde with her arms in the air while Concepción dropped the finest of the court-style gowns over the little jade’s head and began to lace her up.
“Why are you in my room?”
“Your room? That’s a fine thing!” the madre retorted, going immediately and shrilly on the defensive. “We wanted to make sure the gowns fit correctly, of course.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Concepción tossed her head. “If you do not come back, for some . . . unlikely . . . reason, Father Miguel has promised to accompany the return of your trunks. Since we have been impelled to spend a fortune on you, I think you will agree that if you are no longer able to benefit from them, Clotilde should.”
What indeed could you say to such people? I lay down upon the bed and placed my forearm across my eyes, but they were not deterred: They were not English. As if my action gave them further right to carry on, they proceeded noisily with their inventory. At some point, I must have fallen asleep; I awoke with a start, alone, having dreamt of gowns and avid fingers grabbing, which had transformed into the folded hands and muttered prayers of the half-starved priest, whose tonsure had grown into pointed, black, furry ears on the top of his head.
After our supper, it was dark outside and quite warm. Like many Spanish families, the Grimaldis often took a turn through the streets at this time, about eleven o’clock, to cool their blood and aid digestion. The children usually came along, since the Spanish are much more lenient about their offspring’s bedtimes than English parents. I asked to accompany them, and Clotilde decided to come as well, something she didn’t usually do.
“But fetch me a shawl, will you?”
I felt magnanimous; I was about to leave them, so why not? I located a soft pink one to match the furbelowed gown she was wearing, and a blue shade for me. When I clattered back downstairs, Clotilde had just finished pinning up her hair to get it off her neck (as had I, on such a warm night), but there was my favourite comb holding it all in place! She’d obviously removed the comb from my room, along with the earl’s dresses. The sauce of the girl!
We set out after the strolling family. The Grimaldi residence was finely situated in that it was only two or three blocks from the Seine, which is where the family decided to wend. A gorgeous night it was, one of those fine, full-mooned Parisian nocturnes in mid-change from summer to autumn; lovely, soft air that slips across your skin like cool silk. The streets were empty except for us. The lamps were lit and glowing at every corner but seemed almost unnecessary since the moon’s face illuminated everything so enchantingly.
Clotilde and I followed along at a leisurely pace. I could hear one of the little girls piping up shrilly and the deep rumble of Juan’s reply. I was stretching myself to meet the adventure ahead, my mind whirling with the hunger of anticipation, the expectation of youth. We reached the Seine, and I wanted to linger. “Let’s not catch up with them just yet, Clotilde. I never wish to set foot inside a building again!”
She, of course, took me at face value. “But,” brow furrowed like her father, “why would you want to be outside all the time?”
“Oh you goose!” I laughed. “I don’t really mean it, it’s a wish. A projection of fantasy, bobo,” and I poked her, to get back at her a little, and she shrugged. “Oh.”
For some reason, I felt strangely nostalgic, singularly sad. “I’m about to leave Paris, Clotilde, and I wish to remember this moment, this evening.” I let go of her elbow to lean on the railing and gaze into the water swirling past.
At that instant, Clotilde’s neck was clamped from behind by a large, strong hand, and her body lifted by the neck, up and over the railing! A tall, hooded figure in loose workman’s clothing went with her over the railing, as if in flight. It happened all in total silence and at frightening speed! I could barely register what had just occurred; when I did, I regained my mind and voice enough to let out an unholy shriek, then yanked up my skirt and vaulted after them—not thinking, just reacting.
The thing was propelling her, dragging her, along the narrow bank, still by the throat, as I scrambled after them, howling—howling to attract attention, howling to frighten or distract this monster. The girl was writhing, her hair loose and waving over her face, as she tried to pull at the hand gripping her so mercilessly. Finally catching up with them, I reached up to yank back the obscuring hood. But the creature’s other hand shot out like a piston and connected—a blow to my sternum, knocking the wind out of me, though never once did it turn its dark features in my direction. It didn’t seem human; its strength was immense! I got in close again, grabbing its coat, and began to kick. I connected. Was it a shin? Get it in the balls, I told myself, kicking higher. You son-of-a-bitch! Somewhere there were voices, yelling.
All through this punching and thrashing there was not a sound from it of any kind, no grunts or curses, nothing. Clotilde suddenly went limp, as if she was already finished, though I could see wide, terrified eyes and her nostrils dilating in and out. That strong hand clamped on her pale neck, long fingers and sinewy wrists—I needed to break its hold! I darted in, but the free hand swung around again and delivered a crashing blow to my head. I couldn’t help it, I lost hold of the coat. Then, Clotilde’s neck still in its grip, the engaged hand and its powerful arm cast her into the river—and didn’t let go! It was gone with her!
The first sound from the conjoined, silent figures was the splash as they hit the water and went under together. I scrabbled to my knees and stared, gasping for breath. At first, nothing. Then the pink gown, just below the surface, gleaming in the sparkling moonlight. It was rising like a carp coming up to take air. And I began shrieking again—help us, someone, anyone! The water broke over Clotilde’s white face, still clenched by fingers that appeared to be crushing her chin; her dark eyes were open. Then the Seine itself seemed to thrash and move; the creature could swim like a river rat. Propelling the girl’s body—pink dress wavering, glimmering—pushing her through the water with that hand on her throat, as close to her side as a maggot. Her white face sliding like a small ship with a wake, turned to the indifferent moon. I couldn’t stand it! I leapt after them, and the water closed around my head with shocking cold.
All of these events must have taken only a minute, perhaps two. The Grimaldis had heard my banshee cries and rushed back. At the river bank, Concepción pinned the children to her side and told them not to look. Juan began yelling for the police, hoping that one or a
pair of gendarmes might be within earshot—and they were. Two came running. By that time, the hooded head, moving at incredible speed, was out in the middle of the channel. In the water, my skirts were heavy, impeding my progress; out there, the pink gown must have been pulling her down as it became more and more saturated, as he impelled her small self, with such murderous determination, through the cold and unforgiving element. White forehead, nose and chin rising sometimes, going under at others; how long could a body live, swallowing water, gulping for air? Drowning, lungs filling slowly, is a fearsome death. Never let some cruel, deluded soul who drowns kittens in a sack tell you otherwise.
A gendarme swam out to help, reaching me just before I went under from the weight of my skirts. Juan was knee-deep in the Seine as we drew in to the bank, and when he saw me rise to my feet, he cried out sharply in agony, sobbing and moaning and beating his chest. “I thought you were Clotilde—I thought it was you out there!” And he plunged in, swimming desperately after the hideous creature who had his beloved daughter. Concepción wailed in the background, cradling the children. The pink shawl lay, trodden, by the railing. The second gendarme had hastened off for reinforcements and a boat and was back very swiftly. Juan was picked up in the middle of the Seine and stayed with the officers all night, combing the river. Other boats and more men were dispatched; up and down they plied the water, but . . . nothing.
I was helped back to the house by the wet gendarme; Concepción took the children into her bedchamber without a word to me, her features shattered.
Clotilde’s body was found in the morning on the other bank, covered in mud. Lungs full of brackish water, lips and eyelids and cheeks blue, dark ringlets lank. Everything else, dead white. Except the dress—pink now smirched with mud and oil and weed.
The funeral preparations were feverish and full of a kind of delirium. It was August; speed was a necessity, along with flowers of the highest scent. They cascaded everywhere, from the casket to the pews that were filled to capacity. Tout le monde de théâtre de Paris was assembled in the cathedral, as well as the entire Spanish contingent now in exile in the capital. Every face was tearful, every body was embraced, every voice listened to with compassion. Horrified speculation was rife about the killer, but no clues had been found. I felt completely numb throughout. My head and ribs ached from the pounding I’d taken, though I barely noticed; I couldn’t believe what had happened, the swiftness of the tragedy. In my mind, all I could see was that hooded head swimming savagely away, dragging its prey. The Grimaldis wouldn’t look at me or speak to me, not even the littlest, Josep, who turned his face and buried it in his nurse’s black-draped shoulder.
Between the morning his daughter was found dead and the funeral, Juan had rushed everywhere, questioned everyone. He’d slammed about, berating me, as I’d sobbed and cried that I knew nothing, how could I? I pitied the man’s torment, it was so deep. He blamed himself for being enmeshed in politics. Was it an act of vengeance against his family?
“Could someone have been after me?” I asked, hesitantly.
“No, that’s not possible,” he replied tersely. “Why would anyone target you in particular? Or,” he mused unhappily, “my daughter, in particular?”
By the day of the funeral he had exhausted the theory of a political motive and had come to believe it was a random act, foully perpetrated. All that the Grimaldis wanted now was for this to be over; the only other thing they wanted was for me to be out of their lives and gone. I was bad luck, and a reminder of all they had lost. As for me, I didn’t know what to believe.
As the service went on, the smell of incense grew stronger and the emotions as well. I caught sight of crowlike Father Miguel de la Vega seated behind the gorgeously attired grieving family; I was supposed to travel with this stranger? I should get away from them, I remember thinking: go back to England, call it all off. The thoughts tumbled and jangled inside my brain. I tried to think, to plan—as soon as we leave the church, as soon as night falls, as soon as . . . All a muddle.
Dumas père and Ida Ferrier were in attendance several rows back. Dumas seemed in foul humour and had begun muttering despite his wife’s embarrassed entreaties. The Grimaldi family also became aware of the dark energy from Dumas’s pew, and I could tell that Concepción and Juan were equally offended. As we all rose to follow the casket from the cathedral, I saw Dumas push Ida away with a muted roar, then heard her apologetically telling others, “There is a new young collaborator who has not met a deadline. It maddens him.”
I was in a strange, altered mood, dangerously stimulated by horror and the gravity of ritualized grief. And sometimes, truth is, I have no idea what comes over me. There are times when it feels as though I’m suddenly inhabited by a gust of wind, then a storm full of thunder and lightning or an earthquake rises up from my guts, and I cannot stop the momentum any more than one can stop the cataclysmic ferocity of the elements: I am inside the eye of the hurricane—no, I become the eye of the hurricane—and the explosion erupts with a swiftness that surprises everyone around me as much as it astonishes myself.
People were moving slowly into the aisles. Dumas and his wife were passing, the writer’s small eyes looking me up and down. “You again,” he said. “Weren’t you the one—?”
“At the Café de Paris. Was, and still am.”
He grunted dismissively.
“Shame on you for your bad mood, monsieur,” I said. “This day is not about you.”
“Brainless slut,” he declaimed, and then moved away down the aisle.
My brain, my circulatory system, simply imploded—I saw explosions and flashes of red before my eyes, sizzling through me in a hot, fiery gush.
I leapt into the aisle and shouted after him, “Alexandre Dumas, I challenge you! Tomorrow morning at six, in the Bois de Boulogne! Pistols!” My fingers were clenching and unclenching as if already gripping my weapon and happily directing its contents into his head. There were cries of dismay from all around. He staggered with surprise and turned to look, but suddenly I was being dragged backwards and away, bundled along down a different aisle away from the crowd, then slung over a shoulder and carried at a run.
Outside in bright sunshine, several men were clustered and gusts of Spanish filled the air. I was set on my feet, then something dark went over my head. Who are these men, I wondered in terrible alarm. Why hasn’t someone stopped them? A hand was startlingly at my throat—that strong, sinewy hand! Oh dear God, I thought, Clotilde’s murderer? How can this be? I bucked and twisted, but my mouth was clamped shut, forcing me to swallow my screams.
“¡Cállate!” I heard, and other oaths. I recognized the threatening rumble of the piratical bodyguard with the wandering glass eye who’d lifted me in Cristina’s palace—it must be he! I could hear shouting and the footsteps of other men too, as I was hustled along some cobbles, stumbling and almost falling. Where were they taking me? I could hardly breathe, for by then the man’s stinking paw was covering my nose as well as my mouth. The stench and taste of some potent tobacco filled my senses. Before the reek had time to make me physically ill, I bared my teeth and clamped down upon a noxious finger. I heard a human roar, felt a sudden explosion of pain—and then a fall down a long, dark tunnel.
INTERLUDE: THE DEAD OF NIGHT
I AWAKE WITH A start, having slipped off the settee and hit my head on the floor. Merde! I remember where I am: the empty room near the theatre. The last candle is burning now and it too is nearly spent, beginning to gutter. The place feels slippery with blackness, with the possibility of movement in the corners, at the edges of my panic.
Also, I am aghast to discover, there is the sound of footsteps. I scramble up and put myself behind one of the tapestries, press myself against the paneling. A key clanks in the lock. The door opens slowly, and light spills into the room. The Cockney enters carrying a candelabra with three tapers in one hand and in the other a glass carafe and a covered dish.
When he doesn’t immediately see me, he puts everyth
ing down with an oath, spilling wax all over the dish, and comes at the tapestries with both arms flailing. ¡Jesu! He will flatten me or knock me senseless. I step out; what else can I do?
“I’m here.”
I must have something to drink before I expire.
His shadow billows above me and onto the ceiling as he comes to a sudden halt. “Christ, woman. Scared me shitless.”
I point at the carafe, trying for imperiousness. “Is that for me?”
“Thirsty? Tho’t you’d be. Not just yet though, not allowed.”
Dog.
And the big man laughs at me. “Won’t let us get ya, eh? But you will, you’ll come round. You’ll ’ave to.” He yanks one of the wooden chairs to the centre of the room, places the candelabra upon it, then pulls over the other chair and sits himself down, arms crossed, legs spread. I smell a delicious aroma coming from the covered dish and wonder what it can be. Something with meat, and sauce . . . or gravy . . .
I move away to the edge of the room, use my haughtiest Spanish inflections. “Where is your friend, or should I say, associate? Your employer? What is he?”
He sits there, following my movements with his eyes. I don’t like this, not one bit.
“I want to know who you are,” I say. Where has it come from, this defiance? I need water; I need to get out of here! But even more than that, it seems, I need to know that they are not with him—the fiend. Oh god in heaven, that is the terrifying thought that has been slipping around in the shadows.
“The Society of the Exterminating Angel!” I say the name loudly, eyes glued to his face, watching for something, a flicker, a withdrawal, a sense of pride, anything.
He opens his eyes wider, but I can’t read them. Nothing in them of past or future, just of the moment, and the pleasure of his power.
“Please,” I ask, “let me drink something.”