Another Faust

by Daniel Nayeri

  “Having fun?” the governess asked.

  “Always,” said Valentin with a bit of extra confidence.

  She leaned over his shoulder, just in time to see the false photos disappear. “Well, dear. Are you going to undo this little . . . spectacle?”

  “Undo it? Why would I undo it?”

  Valentin’s eyes were still on the one true photo. He looked up to see the governess raise the perfect arch of her left eyebrow, as if to emphasize that beautiful, broken eye. He held her gaze for only a moment. He couldn’t hide anything from her. She knew. She knew what he loved about this freak show. The impossibility of it. Creating something hideous and grotesque and simply ridiculous. A two-headed monster. But what Valentin hoped she didn’t know was that he couldn’t help being the tiniest bit happy for Dustin too.

  “It’s sick . . .” Valentin shook his head as he put the phone in his pocket.

  He turned his back to Madame Vileroy and thought he felt her go away. After a solitary moment, he pulled out the phone again and flipped to the photo. A smile spread across his face. But then, before he could put the phone away, there was a movement, a cold breath on his neck that made the whitish-yellow hairs stand on end, an enveloping presence creeping from behind. And then a whisper, delivered softly in his ear: “Don’t worry, darling. You can keep your little trophy.”

  At midnight — the witching hour — the wind howled in fear, the shutters of the houses slapped hysterically at their hinges, and the village lay in bed asleep. A murder of crows cast shadows by the fattened moon like dark angels in the village square. Dogs and fathers snored on their pillows — even the baker rolled over unaware, and the grave digger nodded standing up with his chin resting on the butt of his shovel. Earlier, the mothers had huddled their children around them like nervous hens, intent on standing guard with garlic and wolf’s bane around their necks, boules and baubles, chanting the old protective words to keep them safe, to protect them from the aftermath of the night’s events — but they’d fallen asleep.

  Outside, black riders now flew about. The tattered cloth flapped across their bare rheumatic skin, unchilled by the air. Only the little boy in the house up the hill was awake to see them, circling through the clouds outside his window, calling to the crows in their banshee voices. The boy knew he wouldn’t be able to wake his mother or father, the handmaid, or even his cat — they were all asleep as if dead. He clutched his blanket and watched as one figure flew in smaller and smaller circles toward him.

  She sat on a branch, her blond hair brilliant and strictly governed into a bun. She looked exactly as she had looked that afternoon, when she had been burned on a stake, her bun perfectly intact, her face calm. He had thought she was gone, that she would not answer now. But she had heard. She knew what he wanted so desperately that his heart burned with longing for it. Now that she had come, he wanted to run and close the curtains. He watched her watching him and wished for his mother. But she lay asleep. The whole village lay asleep well past the midnight when the little boy in the house up the hill disappeared.

  With the semester well under way, Belle spent her spare hours bathing and visiting coffee shops, clubs, restaurants — wherever Marlowe kids hung out — and creating more and more followers. She had avoided Thomas and Lucy, who were together more and more these days. Belle wanted him to hear about her from his friends, to hear them gushing and being in love with her. She wanted him to wonder why they acted that way — what Belle had that Lucy didn’t. Then she would — accidentally — run into him one day. Thank God for Connor. Well, thank Madame Vileroy for Connor. Because once again, Vileroy had been right: the more Belle planted suspicion and jealousy among Connor and his two chirping little birds, Charlotte and Maggie, the more all of them loved her.

  One day, Belle spotted Thomas and Connor hanging out in the Marlowe dining hall after school. With Lucy still in line for a veggie wrap and a smoothie, it was the perfect time to bump into him.

  “Hi, Connor.” She waved, winked, and walked right past them. Connor choked on his chocolate smoothie.

  “Hey, you mind waiting here a minute?” he said to Thomas. “I’ll be just a sec.”

  “You’re going to talk to her? How well do you know each other?”

  “Not as well as I’d like. . . .”

  “She seemed weird at that play,” said Thomas.

  “She’s a total Hottie Hotterson.”

  “Why are you talking like that?”

  “Like what?” said Connor. He seemed confused, distracted.

  “Like some tool on MTV.”

  “Gotta roll, hombre. Lady needs a refill.”

  “See? What is that?”

  “What’s what?” asked Connor with an innocent look.

  “I didn’t realize you’d moved to the . . . hood, or wherever it is they talk like that.”

  “West Side . . . bro.”

  “West Side?” Thomas raised both eyebrows. “Like Lincoln Center? Where they have the New York City Ballet?”

  “Westchester, bi-atch!”

  Thomas just shook his head and sat there while Connor bounced over to Belle, who was sitting alone at one of the round tables near the window. He watched as Connor sat down next to Belle, tried to put his arm around her, and smelled her neck as if she were made of peppermint cream. What’s his deal? Thomas watched as Connor grabbed Belle’s hand and invited her back to their table. He swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. She is gorgeous, though, he admitted to himself. As Belle glided up to his table, Thomas wondered why he had been so judgmental before — about the smell. It could be a foreign thing, or some feminine mystery. Connor was reintroducing them, but Thomas couldn’t hear anything. Something strange was happening to him. He felt relaxed and anxious at the same time. He could smell something new in the air, something indescribable but intoxicating, something that made him uncomfortably happy. He thought he heard Belle say something like “We’ve met.” He just nodded. It was a nice smell. But somehow, on the inside, it felt the same as the way Belle had made him feel before: intoxicated, drugged. He heard Connor saying his name a couple of times, and then he snapped out of it. “Oh, sorry, Belle. I was just thinking of something else. Are you all settled in?”

  Normally, Belle would have thought that was the lamest question ever. But for some reason, she began to scour her brain for the perfect answer. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Lucy, who had just come out of the smoothie line and was glaring in their direction. Fortunately, a teacher pulled her away. To Belle, Thomas was more than just a prize now. She really liked him. And she had to stand there long enough. So she started to describe everything she loved and hated about New York, comparing it to Rome and Paris, while Thomas and Connor listened, not missing a word while missing the whole story.

  “Well, I should run,” said Belle after half an hour of talking about nothing. She looked over at Thomas to see what he would say.

  “Why?” the boys said in unison. Belle laughed.

  “You could stay a little longer,” said Thomas. “I mean, I think Connor has plans, but I was just gonna hang out here.”

  “I don’t have plans,” said Connor.

  “Sure you do. Your dad’s in town.”

  “I’ll catch him later.”

  “Oh, Connor. It’s so mean of you to blow off your own dad,” said Belle with a disappointed look. It was all she could do not to push Connor out the door herself.

  “Fine.” Connor slumped in his chair, before finally getting up to leave.

  Belle and Thomas talked for hours, long after the dining hall staff had gone home and the kitchen had been closed. Every time Belle pretended to leave, Thomas grabbed her hand (making all of the blood rush from her brain) or stole her keys or made up some reason why she couldn’t go. When she asked about Lucy, he evaded, not wanting to ruin the moment. It hurt being near her, but he couldn’t get enough. It was like eating peanut brittle after your teeth have cracked, like licking spray paint because the colors are so beauti
ful. Thomas was falling under her spell, and Belle could hardly believe her luck. Finally, though, Belle grabbed her purse and headed out the door, leaving Thomas with her number and a migraine.

  Belle came home to find Madame Vileroy sitting in the dark center space, doing something with needles.

  “Since when do you knit?”

  Madame Vileroy smiled. “You’ve been gone for a while.”

  “I saw Thomas. Everything is going perfectly,” Belle sang.

  “Not really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re not playing the game right, Belle. If you spend four hours talking to someone, then where’s the mystery? Men like mystery . . . and suspense . . . and games.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Yes, they do. They think they don’t, but they do. They always go for the fickle brats — the ones that play games. And you’re acting like a stupid girl with a crush.”

  “Maybe I am a stupid girl with a crush! Besides, Thomas already likes me.”

  “For now . . .”

  “You think he’ll stop?” Belle asked desperately.

  “Not if you do what I say.”

  Belle waited. The ball of yarn by Vileroy’s side rolled around itself like an endless boulder.

  “You should ignore him for a few days. Let Lucy have him. Let him get a little bored. Then let him hear the rumors about her. Maybe give Connor some hope.”

  “I thought you said hope will boil me alive.”

  “Yes,” she said, bemused, pleased, looking down at her material. The yarn twisted its last few yards and ended in a fuchsia ball, like a withered stomach.

  Belle’s phone vibrated in her purse. “I’m getting a text. Good night.” Belle hurried down the hallway to her bathroom and took out the first bottle that would put her to sleep.

  The next day, Victoria visited Ms. LeMieux in her office. The Marlowe administrative offices were large and sunny, and there were several students sitting in the waiting area. A plump woman of about fifty greeted Victoria and directed her to have a seat while Ms. LeMieux finished with her last appointment. Victoria sat next to a pretty blonde in a cheerleader outfit.

  “Hi. I’m Maggie,” the blonde said, extending her hand.

  “Victoria Faust,” Victoria said without looking at her.

  “Oh, you’re Belle’s sister! Belle is just the nicest girl. I’m so happy I met her. I think we’re going to be friends forever. . . .”

  Her speech grew quicker as she spoke about Belle. She talked like someone on speed or the way you’d imagine a dog with rabies would talk. Victoria thought she saw her eyes grow glassy. Somewhere to the left, someone dropped a stapler. Maggie’s head whipped around like a paranoid criminal.

  The chubby secretary lumbered toward Victoria. “She’s ready to see you now.”

  As Victoria got up, she saw an angry mother storm out of Ms. LeMieux’s office.

  “Honestly, I don’t see what the problem is. My son is far more qualified than the ones you recommended for Yale last year. It was one small indiscretion.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Marcus,” Ms. LeMieux said impatiently. “Ah, Victoria. Come on in.”

  Victoria adjusted her glasses and got up from her seat. She had made sure that she wore her biggest pair today, even though she hated the way they looked and felt. Ms. LeMieux led Victoria into her office and closed the door.

  Just as the door was closing, Victoria saw Lucy enter the waiting area. She caught Lucy’s gaze and waved mockingly with the tips of her fingers. When the counselor turned to refill her coffee, Victoria reached over and reopened the door, leaving it just barely ajar. Lucy sat outside the office, craning to hear. Victoria knew she would listen. She could hear her listening. Lucy scooted her chair toward the door just in time to overhear Victoria buttering up Ms. LeMieux with suspiciously familiar ploys.

  “How did your first day go?” asked Ms. LeMieux. “Do you like your new classes?”

  “I’m enjoying the challenge. I have seven advanced classes, you know.” Victoria beamed, expecting Ms. LeMieux to be pleased.

  Outside, Lucy was chewing on her lip. Seven advanced classes? How’s that possible?

  “Yes, well, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that,” said Ms. LeMieux. “It seems that a few parents think it’s a bit unfair that one student has been allowed to take all five-point classes, while everyone else is required to take at least two four-point classes.”

  “Was it Mrs. Spencer? Did you tell her about my special needs?”

  “I did, and we think we came to an ideal solution. Since you are exempt from the physical courses, we think you should consider replacing them with equivalent four-point courses. How about vocal chorus or home ec?”

  Way to go, Mom! thought Lucy.

  Victoria’s nostrils flared. “How many home economists do you know in the White House, Ms. LeMieux?”

  Ms. LeMieux blanched. “Nonetheless, we must be fair.”

  “Was it fair that I was stricken with all these ailments? Do you even know the kind of breakdown I would have onstage in a choral gown?” Ms. LeMieux could imagine, since she had hated her own choral gown as a girl.

  “But you go onstage for debate.”

  Little cheater, thought Lucy.

  “That’s different. Please don’t make me explain the intricacies of my condition. I’m not a doctor,” said Victoria, her hands at her temples, mimicking the way the moths had shown Ms. LeMieux sitting, in her most frustrated moments. “All I want is to be fairly compensated for the course load I’m handling right now.”

  “Hmm.” Ms. LeMieux sat silently for a few minutes. “I see your point. But still . . .”

  What? thought Lucy. LeMieux CANNOT be buying that!

  “And technically,” continued Victoria, “even though the school has rules for exemption, it has no rule saying it can dictate student schedules or restrict their classes.”

  “Well, that’s true. . . .” Ms. LeMieux had made that exact argument to Mrs. Spencer. Of course, it made perfect sense. Even a child could see it. “I’ll speak to some people.”

  “It’s only fair,” said Victoria.

  Lucy was about to storm into the office. Victoria could feel it. Now that the issue of classes was settled, she had to deal with Lucy — show her a little of what she was messing with . . .

  “Ms. LeMieux,” Victoria said, “did I tell you that I’m writing a paper on the effectiveness of UN peacekeeping tactics?”

  Lucy almost choked on her Diet Snapple. That was her idea.

  “Really?” said the counselor as she rifled through some papers. “Victoria, that is such a wonderful coincidence. I wrote my senior thesis at Yale on that topic!”

  It had taken Lucy a month and a half to find that out — and Victoria only a moment at the party to cheat off her thoughts.

  “I’m surprised that you’re writing papers already,” said Ms. LeMieux. “Have they given out assignments yet?”

  Victoria smugly replied, “Learning is an assignment you give yourself.”

  Ms. LeMieux ate it up with her silver spoon.

  Lucy was livid. What just happened? How did she know? It’s OK. Calm down. LeMieux will still write me a letter when I’m elected class president.

  “I’m going to be elected class president,” said Victoria unprompted.

  Lucy actually did choke that time. Victoria immediately regretted responding to one of Lucy’s thoughts so directly. She’d have to be more careful next time.

  “Good for you,” said Ms. LeMieux as she turned to get more coffee. Victoria reached over with her foot and shut the door. That was enough eavesdropping for Lucy. When the counselor turned back to her, Victoria made a show of adjusting her thick glasses.

  “About the election,” said Victoria. “I wanted to tell you about my eye condition.”

  Ms. LeMieux gave a curious tilt of her head.

  “Chronic Retinal Akinetic Paroxysms,” said Victoria.

  She rubbed her
eyes with her fists like a little girl. “I was hoping you could do me a small favor.” She opened her eyes wider and puffed out her cheeks, and then she rubbed her eyes again till they watered. A wave of shame and pity washed over Ms. LeMieux as she listened to Victoria explain about her special needs. What an unfeeling world, she thought. She took out her notepad and began to write.

  On her way out, Ms. LeMieux’s note in hand, Victoria saw Christian leaving the office. He was there signing up for another sports team. Victoria noticed that, before he left, he pocketed the sign-up pen, a handful of paper clips, and the little frog paperweight that was sitting by the clipboard. Pathetic, she thought.

  After another fairly uneventful day, Valentin was gathering his things to go home when Charlotte finally found him.

  “Hi, Valentin. You didn’t call me after the play. You forgot about me?” she said with a pouty face.

  “Of course I didn’t.” Valentin put on his charming smile and grabbed her hand. “Have a good day?”

  Charlotte beamed and started to tell him about her day, her activities, her friends, and anything else that came to mind. Valentin was such a good listener; Charlotte didn’t notice she was doing all the talking. Finally she stopped and asked what he was up to.

  Valentin stopped as well. His eyes darted to the wall clock, then back to her. A pause, and suddenly he lunged at her, threaded his arms around her waist, and kissed her deep on the lips. She wouldn’t slap him like Missy had done. “Young man!” interrupted a teacher who had just that second turned the corner. Valentin pulled back; Charlotte blushed and touched her mouth. Valentin nodded to the teacher. He winked at Charlotte and thrust his hand in his pocket. Then everything went in reverse — the shout, the teacher, the kiss. Charlotte was back in the hall, never having been kissed. She said again, “Enough about me. What’re you up to?”

  Valentin glanced at the clock, her lips, the teacher coming around the corner. Charlotte wondered what he was smiling about. “I’m going home. I want to work on my poetry book,” Valentin said.