Another Faust

by Daniel Nayeri

Belle reached up and rubbed the area above her heart. There was nothing there at the moment but her flawless skin. Still, the thought fueled her anxiety.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Did you know Christian had one?”

  “Oh?” Belle already knew, but this was the last thing she wanted to discuss now.

  “It went away,” Bicé said casually.

  Belle stopped pacing. She tried to flush the surprise from her face before Bicé turned around from the microwave. She had no idea what that could mean.

  “Hmm, I don’t know,” she said, matching Bicé’s casual tone.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that you both had that same birthmark?”

  “Bicé . . . please . . . I’m so nervous about tonight.”

  “Belle! Stop changing the subject! I always knew we were gifted and that we all paid for that. But you’re scaring me lately. I researched all kinds of skin disorders. There’s no such thing as a mark that only appears in water. And every time I mention something that doesn’t make sense around here, you change the subject.”

  Belle tried to say something.

  “This place scares me, Belle, and I don’t want to be a part of any of this. So you can keep your secrets, but we can’t be sisters if you’re hiding something.”

  Belle plopped down on a chair, and for a moment, Bicé could see her sister’s pain under this facade. “I’m not hiding anything. I know as much as you do, and I’m just nervous now. Can you understand that?”

  Bicé felt bad for scolding her sister. She sat down next to her. “Don’t be nervous. I’m sure he’s desperately in love with you.” She smoothed her sister’s golden hair.

  “He hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet,” Belle whined.

  “So? You’ve only known each other for . . . how long has it been? A few months or weeks? Something like that . . .”

  “Bicé! It’s not a missile launch! How long does it take?”

  “Maybe he’s shy . . .”

  “He kissed Lucy!”

  “Oh, so that’s it,” said Bicé. “You just want to get past the Lucy benchmark — gain some sort of competitive advantage and establish yourself as the dominant player.”

  “What are you babbling about?” asked Belle, a confused smirk on her lips.

  “Just working on my business talk,” said Bicé defensively. “I’m widening my definition of language: shoptalk, sign language, clicking dialects of certain tribes . . .”

  Belle raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m serious,” said Bicé. “It’s a real language! It’s what they speak on the 4/5 to Wall Street. Can we get back on the ball here? You’re just trying to beat Lucy.”

  “No.” Belle looked at her shoes. “What if things don’t go well tonight?”

  “They will. I promise not to say a word to ruin your night.”

  “Oh, Bicé. Don’t say that!”

  “I know I embarrass you.”

  Belle shook her head and reached out to hold her sister’s hand. “Why are you so scared all the time? You used to be so good with people.”

  “Yeah . . .” Bicé dropped her gaze. “But now I spend most of my time alone.”

  “But why? Why do you hide so much?”

  “I like it, Belle. I like to read my books and learn new languages. You have your goals and I have mine. And like I said, this place scares me.”

  Belle glanced at her watch. “Oh, look at the time. I have to get ready.” Belle looked at her sister sweetly. “Bicé, please change your clothes.”

  Bicé ignored that. “I’m going to give this food to Christian now, and I’m not changing. I like this outfit, Belle. I may not be gorgeous, but that’s not all there is in life. I hope you learn that.”

  Bicé walked out of the room. Belle stood in the center, not quite sure whether she was hurt, nervous, or ashamed. She wanted to say something to Bicé. Her vanity wanted her to have the last word, and her conscience wanted her to apologize. She was pretty sure she was ashamed of herself, and hurt that she’d lost Bicé’s respect, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was, “How about just the corduroys?”

  Lurking in a narrow hallway leading to the center of her house, the governess watched as Belle and Bicé talked. Bicé had come so far in the few weeks in this city. She knew so much. And yet she was wholly unaware of what she knew. Now she had fixated on the mark, the external manifestation of a heart so desperate and willing to be sold to darkness that it stained the skin above it. Bicé would soon know this. She would soon figure out what her sister had done, and why Christian no longer had the mark. The governess watched, her body as still as the walls, but not so, since the walls undulated with so much dripping wax and candlelight, dancing grotesquely around her. It doesn’t matter what Bicé knows about the mark, the governess thought. Soon Bicé too will be given a choice. Soon she will have to do what the others have done. But how to ensure that? Over the past few nights, Victoria had come to Madame Vileroy and told her what she knew about Bicé’s progress. So much progress. The governess ran her fingers across her cheek, contemplating what might come of this new disaster. Yes, something must be done. Something must certainly be done.

  But not tonight. Tonight the children will learn a crucial lesson. Tonight Belle will learn about love. She will learn where to place her affection. To not throw it away like cheap trinkets and ornaments. She will learn that love makes you lose control and that control is more precious than a moment’s affection. Love fades. Control remains and grows stronger with time, tightly weaving itself with power, dependence, and a lifetime of secrets. Tonight Victoria will learn that loyalty has its rewards and that success is hard-won — but only for the weak. Tonight Bicé will learn not to hang her hopes on an undeserving sister, and her heart may be too lonely and broken to reject any new offer of happiness.

  Madame Vileroy swept out of the room with the swiftness of a gust of wind but without a single noise, without disturbing the tiniest particle. Like a flash of light, she was gone, and then she was outside, her high heels tapping a careful rhythm on the cobblestones, her coat floating elegantly behind her, a stylish hat tucked under her arm. Soon she found herself on Park Avenue, near the home of the Goodman-Browns. She hadn’t walked for more than two minutes in that neighborhood when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Nicola! How nice to see you here.”

  Madame Vileroy turned and smiled at Charles Goodman-Brown, who had one foot in the back of his Bentley and one foot on the sidewalk.

  “Charles, how are you?”

  “Fine, fine. Where are you headed? Care for a lift?”

  In the car, Charles leaned back, straightened his tie, and flashed Madame Vileroy a big, affectionate smile.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise running into you, Nicola. Thomas will kill me for telling you this, but I can tell he’s really nervous about coming to your place tonight.”

  “We’re looking forward to having him over. He’s a lovely boy,” she said without much enthusiasm.

  “Well, they’re a lovely couple,” Charles offered, as if making a wedding toast.

  “Hmm.” Madame Vileroy’s lips turned up just slightly, not enough to give encouragement.

  “You know, I’ve been a bit curious about Belle,” Charles prodded. “Now that, well, they’re getting so close, I wanted to . . . um . . . Where did she grow up?”

  “Belle has been raised all over the world. She has had an impeccable education.”

  “Yes. She does strike me as very sophisticated . . . like you,” he said sweetly, in that warm, genuine way some people give praise when they are used to their words falling on welcome, solicitous ears.

  Madame Vileroy drummed her fingers on the armrest. “She is, of course, adopted.”

  Charles was taken aback at the timing of this comment. “Huh. You look so much alike.”

  “I supposed you think all blue-eyed blondes look the same?”

  Mr. Goodman-Brown laughed and then, for the first time, noticed Nicola’s le
ft eye, the burned, yet beautiful eye, which gazed back at him with such confidence, as if to suggest that his eyes were the problem, that they were so very ordinary. He straightened his tie again, nervously.

  “Thomas hasn’t had much luck with girlfriends,” he offered.

  “No? He seems to have his share of admirers.”

  “None like Belle. And now that they’re spending all their time together. . . .” He smiled at her teasingly. “I think it’s love, Nicola,” he said with a wink.

  “We’ll see.”

  Madame Vileroy knew it had gone too far. But this was enough. Belle was supposed to be thinking of her future. She was supposed to be thinking ten years ahead, to a time when Thomas would be worth having. She wasn’t supposed to waste all the novelty of this relationship on the present.

  As she was preparing to climb out of the car, Madame Vileroy noticed a file in Charles’s hands. Thanks to the moths (and Mrs. Wirth), Madame Vileroy already knew about the deal he was working on today, on his Sunday off. It was a major investment in a Turkish humanitarian network — a financial scheme that would make low-cost credit available to the poor. She leaned over, kissed Charles Goodman-Brown on the cheek, and said, “Have a nice day, Charles. And watch out for that thief Yamin. I was his son’s tutor in Turkey. You may be entering quite the house of cards.”

  Bicé sat alone in her room and counted aloud. Afrikaans, Aghul, Algonquin, Arabic . . . 5 . . . 10 . . . 21 . . . 23 . . . 33 . . .

  She lost count and had to start over. Concentrate, she told herself. She had to do this. For the first time ever, she wasn’t just doing this to get away from her own fears. She wasn’t just trying to find a space to hide. Ever since she had confronted Belle in the kitchen, Bicé was acutely aware that she herself finally did have a goal. Something that she knew would make a difference. And now that Christian’s mark had mysteriously disappeared (and Belle’s hadn’t), she had something important that she had to figure out. But lately, she had felt someone watching. Madame Vileroy had started coming to her in her dreams, when she was alone, when she was hiding. She had begun to interrupt Bicé’s thoughts, her work. She had begun to infiltrate the sanctuary of her cave and force her to stop. It was as if the governess were afraid of something and trying to transfer that fear to Bicé, so that she wouldn’t find her own real power. Even Victoria was snooping around, trying to figure out what she was doing. Bicé had seen the moths flying around. For once she had something on the governess, something that seemed to be worth her attention. And for all the tricks the governess had played on her, for all the sins Bicé had or hadn’t committed, she had some possible redemption — for herself and her sister. For once, Bicé didn’t feel like a pariah, not at all aimless or lost. For once, she had a glimmer of hope. Because she knew that one good trick deserves another — and her whole existence, her life so far, had been no choice, but a trick.

  Jacob hadn’t studied his arithmetic, but it wasn’t his fault. It was harvest season, when the sun would hang low in the sky, like a dandy on a porch swing, while he and his brother did the threshing. They’d work the wheat, and Jake would stare wistfully across the panning land at the red schoolhouse. Their daddy valued schooling, so they went once a week, and Jake would stare at the new teacher — hair like a wheat field, scent like cinnamon. And Jacob wanted so bad to be good. And she was so good at teaching. And he was glancing at Laura’s tablet . . . just a glance. Then that hand came down on his shoulder and he closed his eyes, knowing he was in for it. But she just ran her hand through his hair and moved on, turning to wink at him with that one bewitching eye.

  Each of them had a role in that night’s dinner. Madame Vileroy had assigned each of them something special to do. No one was enthusiastic about it but Belle. Still, they had to keep up appearances. There wasn’t any preparation involved. They would just switch to the blue-cube house a few minutes before Thomas arrived. The sights, sounds, and smells of a home-cooked Alsatian feast would be conjured up. And Thomas would leave with a great impression. Madame Vileroy playing a beautiful Parisian June Cleaver was just the image she wanted him to take home to his dad. It would do him good. After all, Madame Vileroy deduced, he was in need of an adviser. And who wouldn’t trust someone as wholesome as she? What man wouldn’t take her into his confidence?

  The doorbell rang and Belle jumped up to get it. She realized right afterward that she was revealing way too much of herself to Madame Vileroy, and immediately slowed down. Thomas was at the door with a bouquet of lilies.

  “Hi!” he said as he handed her the flowers and tried to kiss her on the cheek. But Belle was so aware of Madame Vileroy that she turned, and he kissed the back of her head instead.

  “How festive,” said Madame Vileroy as she approached the door.

  “They’re for everyone. To thank you for having me over,” said Thomas after recovering from his fumble.

  Christian took Thomas’s coat. No one noticed him wobble a little as he walked to the closet, still not used to standing up. Bicé went to find a vase.

  Thomas took a seat at the couch. Belle sat next to him, as if the two of them were on an interview. Vileroy was standing across the room, leaning with uncharacteristic casualness on a table that Valentin was sitting on. As usual, he was charming, a little shady, and too close to Vileroy. With her eyes, Belle told him to get off the table. But he just crossed his legs tighter and continued to sit cross-legged on top of the dining table.

  “You have a lovely home, Madame Vileroy,” said Thomas. He sat with his hands folded on his lap.

  “Thank you, dear. We were lucky to find it on such short notice.”

  “So, Tommy,” said Valentin with twinkling eyes, “how’s your mommy?”

  Belle gasped audibly and gave him a deadly look. That comment was a bit too much, even for Valentin.

  Thomas tried to lighten up, laughed a little, and said, “Still dead.”

  Valentin seemed to enjoy Thomas’s response, as if he were experimenting with how far he could go. He leaned close and opened his mouth to speak again, but Madame Vileroy put a loving hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. He seemed to change tack.

  “I’m sorry . . .” he said. Then he looked over at Vileroy as if he were about to do something reckless and quickly added, “I just assumed that was a lie to keep people from knowing she ran off or something.”

  Just then, Victoria walked in. She was wearing the sweats she wore when pulling all-nighters studying. “Hi, Thomas,” she said as she walked across the room. “I’m glad you made it.” Meanwhile, Belle was getting more and more incensed. She had specifically gotten Victoria’s promise that she would dress nice. And Victoria usually dressed decently anyway. Why had she picked tonight to get the Bicé makeover?

  “Thanks,” said Thomas, standing up. When he sat back down, Victoria stayed where she was, towering over Belle and Thomas. “So you’re here to court our pretty sister.”

  Thomas gave the courtesy laugh. “That’s one way to put it.” Belle shifted back on the couch and pushed the words Stop being so rude. Sit down to the front of her brain, where Victoria, who never stopped cheating, would be sure to hear. But Victoria ignored her.

  “What’s the other way?”

  “Victoria!” said Belle out loud. She felt herself jump out of her seat.

  “What? Calm down.” Victoria seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “Calm down, Belle,” said Vileroy. Belle was confused now. Wasn’t Vileroy the one who had wanted Thomas to come over? Wasn’t she the one who had wanted to lure him and his powerful father into their net? Belle hadn’t wanted him to come over. But Vileroy had forced her to invite him. So why was she letting Valentin and Victoria behave like this? Belle sat back on the couch and crossed her arms.

  “So I hear you have some big plan for the debate tournament,” said Victoria.

  Thomas turned and looked at Belle. She shrugged nervously. “Sure, I guess,” he said.

  “Well?” said Victoria.

>   Belle sat up again. “What are you doing, Victoria? Just go away. Madame Vileroy —”

  “So what’s the plan?” said Victoria, still looming over the two of them.

  Thomas tried to laugh it off.

  “You should probably tell her,” said Valentin, his eyes widening as though he were trying to scare Thomas but was obviously having fun. “She has a way of finding things out. . . .”

  “It’s just a debate tournament,” said Thomas, still laughing.

  But Victoria wasn’t laughing. What seemed so petty and small to Thomas was Victoria’s next prize. She would do anything. . . . “It’d be best for you if you told me what you’re planning,” she said.

  Belle was on the verge of tears now. She seemed calmer, though, as if she knew what was going on.

  “I think maybe I should leave,” said Thomas.

  “No,” said Belle instinctively, then suddenly seemed to change her mind and said, “OK.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said Victoria. “I’m getting what I want if I have to break your head open and puzzle back the pieces of your brain.”

  Belle stood up. “Victoria, stop it right now.”

  “Relax,” said Victoria. “Vileroy won’t let him remember any of this. He’ll go nuts if he stays awake another minute.” Victoria gave Thomas a crazed look of pure satisfaction. Valentin was playing with that old pocket watch again. Madame Vileroy patted him on the leg and nodded to Victoria.

  “Won’t let him remember what?” said Belle.

  “I’m going to read his mind. What do you think?” said Victoria. Then she turned to Thomas, who was looking horrified. “This wouldn’t be a problem if you paid less attention in school. I keep trying to burrow into your thoughts, and you keep realizing something’s going on. But we have our pretty little bait here, and you followed her right home. Now if you wouldn’t mind just —”

  Thomas stood up. “Get away from me.”

  “Don’t do this,” said Belle.

  “Shhh . . . I want to see her do it. Go ahead, Vic, let’s see some cheating,” said Valentin.