D.Divahs possess a hearty aversion to the language of the French.
II.But, Ava, what do divahs WANT?
A.That's easy. Your soul.
B.Demons-all eternal beings as well-do not have a soul of their own. This is a constant source of annoyance for them. They will take possession of yours, if you're not careful.
III.But aren't demons the stuff of HEAVEN and HELL?
A.Yes! And the Upper East Side.
B.Theirs is a murky realm, as they are very much opportunists. The more dangerous ones are apt to be found in the worlds of fashion or film-although there's plenty to attract a divah to something as unlikely as politics. Demons are excellent mimics, and oftentimes can speak in tongues.
IV.What GETS RID of a divah?
A.This is quite difficult, as divahs are persistent and relentless.
B.An exorcisme gets rid of a divah.
1.A good trick: throw an extra “e” at the end of a word. Instant French! This will come in handy on your demon-hunting adventures.
2.Exorcismes are so misunderstood. Whatever you do, avoid conducting one in Latin; divahs simply can't get enough of that dead language. Pepper your exorcisme with a little French, et voilaà.
V.Ava Quant, what exactly IS an exorcisme?
A.Relentless French talk.
B.And water. Evian is the weapon of choice, but any imported French water will do. Douse the subject thoroughly. (It burns like acid.)
C.If necessary, follow this with the guillotine.
1.Vive la France!
VI.A GUILLOTINE? Where do I get one?
A.See me.
Itzy read the pamphlet twice before dismissing it. It had the feel of some sort of crazed proclamation, something that should be pasted to a medieval church door. And it surely wasn’t the Ava Quant—that old actress was most certainly dead by now. The real Ava Quant, star of the silver screen, had famously given up acting and renounced public life. There was rumor, Itzy remembered, of a nervous breakdown, of inner demons. Then, she was simply never heard from again.
This Ava Quant, Itzy frowned at the parchment, was apparently a lunatic.
10
Itzy slung her camera bag over her shoulder and checked the pocket of her coat for her key, a habit she had in place from home. Her father’s hours at the university were unpredictable, and he always seemed to be on call for some research project or moderating some lecture. She no longer thought a lot about her mother, and when she did she wasn’t entirely sure if the memories were her own.
The hotel’s hall was as silent as a tomb, the muted oriental runner thick beneath her feet. Stealing a quick glance at the lonesome unmarked door, Itzy noticed the pile of newspapers was gone. She paused, listening, but there was no piano, no sound at all. Quietly she tried the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. Still, a chill crept up her spine, and she blinked back a sudden rush of adrenaline. Someone was watching her.
Hurrying around the corner, Itzy stabbed at the elevator’s buttons. The hall was empty except for a lavish vase of flowers, which perfumed the entire landing. Lush Audubon birds were frozen in gilt frames upon the walls. Her stomach dropped as she thought she heard a soft click—as though a door were opening—and she jabbed the illuminated call button once more.
Itzy thought of the rat-creature in her bag, the noise it made as it skittered across the floor.
Sometimes, at home and mostly at night, Itzy would get panicky, and these attacks were unpredictable and unpleasant. She would be overwhelmed with a cold fear, and if unchecked, her heart would race and she could barely catch her breath.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to calm her breathing—but this simply made her hearing more acute. Were those footsteps she heard down the hall? Her hand found her metallic camera case, and she flipped open the clasps, grabbing the Leica from its snug, padded interior. Instantly she felt better.
“Miss Nash?”
Itzy had not heard the elevator arrive.
She opened her eyes and tried to smile.
“Everything okay? You look a bit pale.”
“Yes, fine, Johnny. Thank you. I was—never mind. Call me Itzy, by the way.”
After stealing a look over her shoulder, she stepped into the elevator.
“Exploring?” he asked, indicating the camera she gripped with white fingers.
“How did you know?” She flushed, putting the Leica away.
“You look like a tourist.” He smiled.
“Better that than a vagrant,” she said. She thought of Pippa, her perfectly manicured appearance, and hoped she wouldn’t be lurking in the lobby. Itzy contemplated her camera bag. “Do I really look like a tourist?” That was not a good look for anyone in the gilded zip code of 10021.
“No. But if you want, when I’m off later, I’d be happy to show you around.”
“That would be great!” she smiled. “I mean—sure.” Itzy stole another look at Johnny. His hair was dark, and his lashes were long. The little cap upon his head was oddly endearing.
“If you really want to see something,” he whispered, “I’ll show you the basement.”
“The basement?”
Johnny smiled. His cap was slightly askew, his eyes a deep dark brown.
“There’s a maze of tunnels down there, and no one knows them like me. I’ll give you the insider’s tour of the Carlyle,” he said proudly.
The elevator reached the lobby, and Itzy had already stepped out into the small vestibule when he called her name. She turned.
“Bring your camera.” He winked.
Itzy walked to the front desk, grateful the lobby was quiet.
The clerk looked right through her.
“Any mail or messages for me? 1804,” Itzy asked. Her father had promised to write from Paris.
“Nothing.” The woman smiled blankly.
“Can you mail this, please?” Itzy slid a cream-colored envelope over the smooth surface.
The clerk snatched up the letter to her father, and the counter was once again empty and spotless.
Outside, the weather had turned colder, unseasonable for late June. Itzy pulled her black coat around her tighter and flipped her sunglasses down over her eyes. Wold had said the photography store was on Lexington. She headed off, guessing at the direction, not wishing to appear like a tourist.
11
Obscura & Co. was not easy to find. Nor did it appear to be open.
Lexington Avenue was a smaller avenue than Madison, and far less grand. The photography store was incredibly run-down, sandwiched between a dated-looking high-rise and a cobbler with a flashing neon sign in the outline of a man’s shoe. Metal grates were pulled down over the small, filthy windows, and access to the door was through a dreary recess that smelled not unlike a toilet. Undeterred, Itzy braved the entry, avoiding an oily puddle as she did. The door was wooden, and the shade was pulled down, a sign marked CLOSED dangling on the other side of the dirty glass.
Itzy knocked anyway.
On tiptoe, she peered through the window and saw a glass-topped counter, its contents blurred but promising. She knocked again.
Behind her, Itzy felt the warm sunlight vanish and she stiffened. She was suddenly aware of her Leica, the warnings she’d received from her father about carrying her valuables out in the open in New York. She turned, hoping to appear casual. A silhouette blocked the passage. She scrutinized it.
“We have to stop meeting this way,” she said finally, hands on her hips.
Luc folded his umbrella and stepped into the dingy entry.
“Sightseeing?” Luc asked, a slight smile on his lips. “Or just a little breaking and entering?”
“Actually, if you must know, I was hoping to get some supplies—and have a roll of film developed.” She gestured to the sign. “But they’re closed.”
Luc walked nearer, and Itzy stepped back to let him by. She breathed in his smell—indescribable, like cherished leather-bound books. Luc reached for the battered front doorknob.
“Now who’s breaking and entering?” she asked.
His hand closed on the wooden knob, and he twisted it, his eyes never leaving hers. As the door opened inward—easily—a small bell chimed.
“Itzy,” he explained, “nothing is as it seems.”
Luc had almost disappeared into the shadows of the store before Itzy had recovered herself enough to follow.
12
Somehow the interior of Obscura & Co. was bigger and brighter than it appeared from the shop’s exterior. Music drifted down from unseen speakers, a low, rhythmic techno beat. Shelves held tools for measuring light and dark and equipment for capturing it—some completely foreign and arcane. Itzy was enthralled. This was a store to rival none other—it alone was worth the trip to her aunt’s. She walked the aisles in a daze.
She heard them before she saw them—speaking in soft tones, an occasional burst of laughter. She rounded the corner and came upon a table littered with coffee cups. Young people were gathered around the mess, gossiping and exchanging news beside a large lightbox scattered with various photographs marked liberally with a red grease pencil. They were her age, maybe slightly older. But this was hard for Itzy to tell, for she found everything about them—their clothes, their hair, their makeup, worn not only by the girl but also by one of the boys—so hip, so incredibly cool, so foreign, that she nearly backed up the way she came.
At the sight of Itzy, all conversation ceased.
“Don’t mind me,” Itzy said.
The music pulsed, quickening in the silence.
The girl was nearest, and she turned to look at Itzy. Her eyes were gray like mist, and her hair was long and black. Around the table, the three boys blinked, looking at Itzy with undisguised interest.
“Itzy!” Luc’s voice came from behind her, and for a moment Itzy saw a different look on the girl’s face as she gazed in Luc’s direction. This look told Itzy more than she wanted to know.
Luc was at the counter, talking to an older man. Their low tones stopped as Itzy walked over, casting one last glance at the table.
The old man turned to Itzy, an amused look on his face. “This the one?” the proprietor asked Luc, who nodded.
“Itzy,” Luc said. “This is Maurice.”
The man had been wearing a pair of magnifying glasses, which he now unhooked from his ears, sighing. He squinted at Itzy, appraising her.
“I’d say you have your hands full,” he finally pronounced. To Itzy, he said, “Luc tells me you like to take pictures.”
Itzy nodded.
The old man’s face was weary and lined. His eyes were a startling copper. Itzy resisted the impulse to photograph him.
“I’d like to have this developed, please.” Itzy retrieved a roll of film from the pocket of her trench coat. “It’s T-MAX,” she added, clacking it down on the counter.
His gnarled hands picked up the small yellow canister. On his fourth finger was a black circle of ink. A tattoo of a ring, in the deepest of blacks.
“Processing?”
“Standard.”
“Prints?”
“A contact sheet is fine.”
Maurice paused, squinting.
“What’s that you got there?” He nodded at Itzy’s camera.
Itzy placed her Leica on the counter for him to inspect. He turned the camera over in his hands, cocking the arm and peering through the viewfinder. “An M6. Zeiss lens. This is no toy.” The old man looked at her. “Not many people shoot in black-and-white these days.”
“Is there any other way?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Itzy.”
“Itzy. What kind of name is Itzy?”
“What kind of name is Maurice?”
“French.” Maurice smiled. “Itzy, what kind of photography do you do?”
“Portraits, mostly. Candids. I really like Mary Ellen Mark,” she said shyly.
“Well, that’s some weapon you got there, Itzy. Hope you know how to use it.”
“I do.”
“Film has a habit of exposing reality.” He shrugged, returning the camera. “Be careful what you wish for.”
The old man placed the roll in an envelope.
“Anything else I can get you?”
“Actually, yes. I need a really fast film. For shooting in the dark. Have any 3200?”
“What sort of dark are we talking?”
“A basement.”
“What sort of portraits are you doing in a basement?”
Itzy found herself flushing a deep scarlet. “It’s good to be prepared,” she said.
“Try this. It’s IR. Infrared. I bet you’ll have all sorts of fun with it.” Maurice placed a roll on the counter and slid it toward her. “A dying art form.” He peered into her eyes. “Consider yourself warned.”
13
“How do you know that man?” Itzy asked Luc as they walked beneath his umbrella along East Eighty-Fourth.
“Maurice?” Luc asked.
“Maurice.”
“The war,” Luc said vaguely.
“War?” Itzy stopped walking. “What war?”
“It was a while ago.”
“It must have been,” Itzy said. “That man’s ancient.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Itzy saw Luc smile. She was pleased.
“Some people say there’s really only one war, Itzy.”
Itzy could think of many, including some that were not yet finished, and she said so.
“They are all the same war, fought again and again. The battle between good and evil.”
“Oh,” she said. Luc had a point.
Luc appeared to be listening to something, his head cocked. He frowned and grabbed Itzy’s hand. The rain was coming down in earnest.
“Time to go,” he urged.
Itzy liked the feel of his hand in hers. “What’s the hurry?” she asked. “A little rain won’t hurt you.”
She could hear something now, clearly through the downpour: the sharp metallic tang of horse hooves against the cobbles. Luc heard it, too, coming closer. She thought she saw a teetering carriage at the intersection, turning the corner slowly, navigating on an unsteady wheel.
“It’s just a hansom cab, Luc. On its way to the park. Even I know that—”
Luc appeared to be debating something, casting a sharp glance back in the direction of the photography shop. His features hardened. He was apprehensive.
The carriage had drawn nearer and appeared to be in a dreadful state. The lone horse was dead tired, and its head hung near the ground. It dragged its feet chillingly against the street, and its breathing was labored—its ribs protruding prominently upon its sides. Of the driver, Itzy saw nothing, and she craned her neck, morbidly fascinated.
Luc cupped her chin with his hand. “Whatever you do, do not look,” Luc instructed her. His tone was firm, but gentle.
Before she could ask why, Luc had maneuvered himself so his back was to the oncoming coach, blocking Itzy from further view. He lowered his umbrella, another barrier. The horse and carriage were close enough now that Itzy could feel its rumbling beneath her feet. She heard the appalling breathing of the sick animal. The creaking of the faulty wheel sent a chill down her neck. It drew closer, slowly, until in one final groan, the carriage shuddered to a stop beside them.
Luc then did something entirely unexpected.
He pulled Itzy to him and kissed her.
14
It was a long kiss, and without very much to compare it to, Itzy felt like she had better enjoy every moment of it—who knew when such a kiss would come around again? She felt herself rising onto tiptoe and kissing him back. She felt weightless and overwhelmed with his scent again—the fragrance now of polished wood, starched linen, sunlit rooms. Luc’s lips were softer than she had expected, and his arms wrapped around her protectively. All thoughts of the loathsome carriage had left her.
And just as suddenly, it was over—Itzy found her two feet cruelly back on the ground. She felt strangel
y heavy. Luc’s amber-flecked eyes were upon her, searching her expression for something, some unnamable thing, and then, without a look over his shoulder, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down Eighty-Fourth Street, back to the Carlyle.
Itzy had recovered herself sufficiently at Seventy-Seventh Street and stopped, turning to Luc.
“What was that for?” she asked.
“What was what?” he asked innocently.
“That kiss,” she said softly.
His stare penetrated her. “Your own good,” he said finally.
Itzy looked at him closely—his tangle of dark brown hair worn to one side, his strange syrupy eyes, bright as sunshine. Again she noticed that his face held light, an aura almost. He was breathtaking.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” he said without any trace of irony.
“I would.” Itzy flushed. “But I only have the IR on me—and that sort of film I need to load in the dark.”
Luc shifted his weight back and forth. He looked suddenly tired.
“Ah, yes. The basement.”
“And tunnels,” said Itzy.
“Tunnels? You don’t say.”
“Yes, many tunnels. Or so Johnny promised.”
“Johnny, the elevator boy?”
“The one and only. In fact, I’m meeting him this way.” Itzy indicated Seventy-Seventh Street. “The staff entrance.”
“I’ll walk you.”
Itzy smiled.
“It’s just a basement, Luc. What could be so bad down there?”
15
The staff door toward the end of Seventy-Seventh Street was discreet, unmarked. Itzy looked around. The street was quieter than the Carlyle’s Seventy-Sixth, with none of the hotel’s purring limousines and costumed doormen, the flurry of guests arriving and departing. Like the dark side of the moon, Itzy thought.
The awning to a high-rise apartment building jutted out over the sidewalk, and she stopped beneath it to wait out the rain.
“Johnny’s late.” Luc smirked.
“I’m a big girl. I can wait by myself,” Itzy said. When Luc did not respond, she added, “Don’t worry. I won’t flag down any hansom cabs.”
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