Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  She recognized his medical bag as the one from his office, and her stomach lurched.

  “I didn’t injure it,” Itzy clarified. “I was bitten.”

  “Best take care of these things before they fester. Why, I’ve seen infections get the better of even the healthiest of persons—and once the rot sets in, well, there’s really no choice other than to lose the limb. Gangrene is serious business. Of course—that was in the war. Things are rarely that drastic these days, wouldn’t you say?” He paused, assessing Itzy. He cleared his throat. “I jest, Miss Nash. You’ve gone completely pale.”

  “Oh.” Itzy attempted a laugh but it sounded thin, contrived. “I’m fine, doctor,” Itzy said. “I took care of it myself, earlier. It feels much better.”

  “Miss Nash, I really must insist.” Dr. Jenkins fixed Itzy with a look. “Surely your Aunt Maude instructed you to respect your betters here at the Carlyle?”

  She moved aside for the doctor, who, after one curt nod, entered the foyer. He found the stand in the corner and placed his cane in it with a practiced gesture and then his bag upon the side table. He made a showing of unbuttoning his coat and opening the cloakroom. The task of hanging his coat was performed only after a full examination of the various furs hanging limply from the rod, as well as an inspection of the overhead shelf, which—as far as Itzy could see—contained only a selection of hatboxes. He lingered over one fur in particular, a showy fox, its long guard hair like an exotic caterpillar, its russet-colored pelts draping fully to the floor. The collar was trimmed with fox heads, and their black glassine eyes stared at Itzy.

  She cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with. I’ve had a long day.”

  “So I’ve gathered.” Holding his bag, he pushed past her with a pronounced limp, entering the living room.

  Itzy opened her mouth to apologize for the flies, but the doctor had vanished down the small hall toward the servants’ quarters. She followed quickly.

  She found him in the kitchen, peering into the cabinets, muttering to himself, scrutinizing the array of spoiled food. “Yes, yes,” he said, tapping his fingers on the counter thoughtfully. He spun around, a feverish look of excitement on his shiny face, and a wisp of hair freed itself from the confines of his otherwise bald scalp. He continued down the hall to the Blue Room. There, he stopped short, sniffing.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked, sniffing too.

  “Wrong?” His eyes gleamed. “Wrong? Hardly! No, child. Something is terribly, awfully, truly right.” The doctor had been creeping toward the closet, and reaching it, he put an ear to the door.

  Itzy eyed the closet nervously. The flies were thicker in her room, she noticed. She watched as one emerged from the crack of the doorframe. It wandered around in a disoriented circle, preening its wings, and then flew to join the others.

  The doctor was listening intently now through his stethoscope, eyes closed.

  “Dr. Jenkins, there’s something in my closet, isn’t there?”

  A shiver overtook the man, and he tore himself away from the door. His eyes were bright, and when they found Itzy’s, they appeared to see right through her.

  “Doctor?”

  Remembering the satchel in his hand, he looked at Itzy. “Right. Let’s have a look at that leg.” He patted the thin mattress with pudgy fingers, indicating Itzy should sit.

  Beads of sweat dotted his brow as she did what was she was told. He opened his medical bag and rifled through it. She could hear the doctor’s ragged breath as he bent over her, muttering occasionally to himself. She saw his head, the shiny circular patch of skin on his bald scalp, and she was reminded of the train—the lone passenger in her car. In his bag were more glittery ampoules and a long stainless steel syringe.

  “Does this hurt?” he asked, prodding her ankle roughly.

  She shook her head.

  “How about this?”

  Itzy bit her lip. His grip on her leg was fierce. From the closet, the scraping had begun again, low and insidious, but the noises—if he heard them at all—were ignored.

  Turning his attention to his medical bag, he produced a metal hammer with a darkened rubber tip, and he tapped her knee. Her leg responded, reflexes firing. Her leg jerked. Itzy never had liked this feeling at her annual doctor’s visits—body parts moving without her intention, a jittery loss of control—and she liked it even less now in the hands of Dr. Jenkins. Finally, he moved on to another tool. This one was vicious, rusty, and brandished for her inspection. He leaned in and, opening his liver-colored lips, a rush of fetid hot air poured out.

  “A piece of advice,” Dr. Jenkins said, his voice like a grave digger. “Be careful of the company you keep, your foolish explorations. The hotel can be a dangerous place for the uninitiated.”

  She thought of his bleak chambers, his small cot—the sinister scrawl upon the wall.

  He knows I was in his office.

  Itzy nodded, wide-eyed.

  “You are to keep to your room at all times,” he said, fingering his rusty scalpel. “We wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

  The little hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  Dr. Jenkins straightened, his tone once again professional.

  “Well then. I’m glad we had this little chat.” He glanced offhandedly at her leg. “Everything seems to be healing nicely. Would you like something to help you sleep?” he asked, snapping closed his medical bag.

  Itzy shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  The doctor had examined the wrong ankle.

  34

  Itzy was changing into a pair of sweats and a fresh T-shirt when again the doorbell rang. Startled, this time she made sure to peek out the peephole. The fish-eye lens showed a small army of men in white coats waiting on the other side of the door.

  She had forgotten about room service.

  The bounty was brought in on three carts, which the waiters rolled efficiently into position by the toile couches. There was a bill, which Itzy signed with flourish, and when the staff had left, she turned to examine the carts.

  The first cart held whole entire cakes—a towering chocolate buttercream, a wispy coconut bombe, and thin elegant tortes. Silver filigreed plates were stacked with delicate cookies and chocolate truffles. Next, a pot of whipped cream was dusted with cocoa, and coupes of ice cream sat in silver tubs of shaved ice beside steaming carafes of chocolate and caramel. Pillowy meringues floated in a thin, yellow custard within an enormous crystal punchbowl, and Itzy poked at one.

  On the last cart, Itzy found a pitcher of steaming milk beside a small silver dome. There were delicate teacups, and Itzy used one to pour herself some of the hot milk. She breathed in the steam, cradling the cup in her hands. It smelled of vanilla—and of home. She took a sip, and then another, and grabbed a sugar cookie from the platter. There were saucers, too—not at all like home—and Itzy placed the teacup and the cookie on one. She wandered over to the crystal punchbowl again, peering in. The white meringues bobbed like dead guppies. A fly was now swimming in it dispiritedly.

  There was something faintly funny-tasting about the milk, and she put it down, as well as the half-eaten cookie. Returning to the gleaming dome, she lifted it.

  On a silver tray was something small and cylindrical. At first she thought it was a single roll of film, for it was nearly the same size, but the scarlet print on its side told her it was something else. VENUS FLYTRAP, read the label. Flypaper. A small note on thick cardstock caught her eye.

  Compliments of the Carlyle

  She grabbed the roll of flypaper and returned to her bedroom.The flies circled lazily beneath the light.

  Itzy approached the closet tentatively. The iron bed frame was too heavy to move. Working quickly, she pushed her chest of drawers across the room, leaving rough gouges on the lacquered parquet floor. She angled it against the door, leaning on it when she was done. No one was opening that closet.

  Pulling out the bottom drawer, Itz
y climbed on top of the dresser and produced the flypaper from her pocket. She found the taped closure of the roll, and slowly unrolled the sticky paper. It was a deep brown and slicked with viscous glue, glue that stretched in long stringy tendrils. The pull tab doubled as a thumbtack, and with effort she pressed the pointy end into the hard old wood.

  Jumping down, she examined her handiwork.

  The paper dangled in a limp spiral. Already several flies were attached, buzzing angrily. Theirs was not a happy fate, Itzy saw.

  She crawled beneath the thin blue blanket, and with the lights burning, she fell instantly into a deep, dark sleep.

  Quite a bit later, a bell tolled. This did not immediately strike Itzy as odd, because on the grounds of her father’s university there was an old church whose chimes rang regularly. She listened. People were shouting. The window in the Blue Room no longer let out onto an air shaft, but rather, a vast open courtyard. It was thronged with people. The courtyard ended at the banks of a river, brown and turgid, but the city continued on long after, spirals of smoke rising from far off chimneys.

  She struggled to sit up but her head felt wooden, and her ankle throbbed.

  People were gathering, summoned by the bells.

  An executioner stood beside a hulking guillotine in the center of the square. The blade gleamed, searing her vision.

  “I ssssssaid I’d be back,” a soft voice whispered beside Itzy’s bed.

  Itzy turned—ghost-streaks of light followed her gaze, echoing the outline of the window. She felt dizzy and unbearably hot.

  Somehow an enormous serpent stood before her. It was the serpent from the embroidery above her bed, and as so, its scales were made of iridescent threads. Its body was irregular, thickened from a meal, bulbous. It wore a human head, its face twisted and bloated.

  “I am unssssstoppable,” the creature gloated.

  Itzy turned from the serpent, back to the square.

  Itzy squinted at the executioner. He strutted about the scaffold. His body was barrel-shaped and he wore a black leather mask.

  The bells ceased, and Itzy awoke in a cold sweat.

  Her ankle was swollen twice its size, and she had a terrible thirst. She winced as she hobbled to the small bathroom across the hall. She ran the water in the porcelain sink for some time but it refused to get cold. She wrinkled her nose at the smell, like rotten eggs. She gulped it down anyway, finally, and with it several aspirin from an old bottle.

  She looked down at her foot, not daring to check the bandages. She would ask Luc to look later. Something glittered in her reflection and she peered into the mirror, frowning. She parted the hair near her forehead. Overnight, several of her long brown hairs had turned silvery white. She half-heartedly plucked at a few before giving up.

  Staggering back to her bed, the fever dream came rushing back at her. The serpent, the execution.

  She stopped, staring at the far wall.

  Her chest of drawers had been moved. The door to the closet stood open.

  35

  The governess was sitting among the pillows on the toile-covered couches. Her face had a shine to it, like a newly laid egg. Her hair was mousy, and her face was plain, bordering on ugly. Her jaw was set in the way of one unused to compromise. In her arms she clutched a lone, sturdy bag made from peeling paprika-colored leather that was charred in several places. The room, too, had a burned smell to it, Itzy noticed. The woman appeared to be wearing one of her aunt’s furs—the fox she had seen the doctor admire—and had it wrapped tightly around her thin form, although the heat in the room was blazing. A rusted can sat beside her upon a Carlyle napkin, the metal of the lid a jagged wreck, a bent silver fork protruding at an odd angle.

  “Hello?” Itzy said, surprised. “Are you my governess?”

  “And who else would I be?” the woman replied, cross. She had a faint, unplaceable accent.

  “I—uh—”

  “Don’t just stand there with that mouth of yours hanging open—something’s liable to crawl in. Turn around, child. Let me inspect you. Ah—good, good. A bit scrawny—is this the fashion these days? I suppose you’ll have to do.” The woman sat at an odd angle, propped up by cushions. Itzy noticed a mouthful of unfortunate teeth. “Now, make yourself useful and get the door. Something’s making quite a racket in the hall.”

  “How did you get in here?” Itzy asked the woman. Her head pounded, she still felt feverish.

  “Same as everyone else. Through the door.” The governess sniffed.

  Itzy peered at the woman closer. There was flypaper in her hair.

  “Which door?” she frowned.

  Itzy limped through the small foyer. She hardly recognized herself in the reflection of the gilt mirror. She had dark circles beneath her eyes and her hair desperately needed a wash. She peered through the peephole, but there was nothing.

  Listening, Itzy thought she heard a hoarse yelp, followed by a labored dragging of nails.

  She opened the door slowly and looked down at the source of the decrepit shuffling.

  “Paris?” she gasped.

  The tiny dog ignored Itzy and made its way past her slowly on a broken hip.

  Itzy followed it into the living room where Paris attempted to jump on the governess’s lap, but its ravaged hind legs crumpled beneath him.

  “Oh, Mopsie!” the woman said, scooping up the broken animal. One of its back paws had been gnawed on. “How I missed you, little cabbage.”

  Itzy looked at Paris, incredulously. Something thick and yellow dripped from its eye.

  36

  Down the hallway, Itzy jabbed at the elevator button. When the doors finally opened, Itzy nearly collided with a passenger disembarking.

  “Mrs. Brill?” Itzy gaped, before remembering her manners.

  Mrs. Brill was carrying an unwieldy bouquet and her eyes were bright.

  “Is it true?” she asked upon seeing Itzy, her face straining to achieve some sort of expression.

  “Is what true?” Itzy frowned, making way for the woman and her bouquet.

  Mrs. Brill didn’t respond, but merely continued on her way, rounding the corner in the direction of 1804.

  Itzy boarded the elevator thoughtfully.

  “Lobby, please,” she said.

  An unfamiliar, unfriendly man wore the uniform today.

  “Where’s Johnny?” she asked him.

  The man shrugged, not meeting her eye, and stopped the elevator at fourteen to let on a young, well-dressed couple. The remainder of the ride was completed in silence, Itzy’s mind darkly contemplating the errand she had been given—to find Dr. Jenkins.

  “Get me my servant,” her new governess had ordered. “We are not amused.”

  “Your … servant?”

  “Indeed. That doctor fellow. I had hoped for something better than this.” With Paris on her lap, the woman stared at her with those dark eyes while the dog cocked its head, showing its teeth.

  Any further protests had died in Itzy’s throat.

  Dr. Jenkins’s offices were on the other side of Bemelmans Bar, Itzy remembered, where the Carlyle had a row of tiny offices. But she simply couldn’t bring herself to go. Itzy thought of the small, crooked cot in his back room, the strange symbols and unspeakable stairs that led below. Her governess would just have to summon him herself.

  The front desk was unmanned when Itzy arrived, hoping for some word from her father. The staff was gathered in a tight knot conferring with Wold, their backs to her. Itzy looked at the concierge. His face was red, and his eyes shined, lit from above.

  Her own head felt hot; the lights from the chandelier were burning her retinas. She surely had a fever. Itzy wondered when the aspirin would start working.

  There was a commotion behind the desk as Wold’s gathering dispersed, and several of the uniformed staff scurried to the elevator behind the concierge. Itzy watched as Wold boarded the elevator, his gloved finger working the floor buttons himself. He patted his hair into place and yanked at the flower
in his lapel, setting it straight. As the doors slid closed, he was still issuing orders to his personnel.

  Itzy watched as the remaining desk staff fanned out. Her eyes came to rest on the Carlyle Restaurant, off the lobby. Itzy had never paid the restaurant any mind—it had always seemed empty, and today was no different. A towering vase of flowers dwarfed the sole occupied table.

  It was the young couple from the elevator, Itzy saw, having breakfast. They were seated in a plush banquette, quite close. The man leaned across the table to touch the woman’s cheek and whispered something that made her laugh—a bright splash of gold flashed from her neck as she threw her head back.

  A table in the corner caught Itzy’s eye. The restaurant was not as empty as she had thought.

  Itzy had been thinking about Luc just now, as she watched the couple from the elevator. And there he was. He was not alone.

  Once, when she was younger, Itzy spent a day at a museum with her class. Bored, she had wandered on ahead and, rounding a corner, she saw an older girl with her mother. Itzy often looked at girls with their mothers with a certain curiosity, and she did so then. Only, this girl was so completely striking, so breathtaking, that she didn’t quite know what to do with her eyes. Itzy watched like a deer in the headlights, frozen, until the girl and her mother had passed.

  Pippa Brill was like that.

  Itzy watched now, unable to look away, as Luc’s arm reached out across the white tablecloth to take hold of Pippa’s hand at the Carlyle Restaurant.

  Finally, with her face burning, Itzy turned on her heel and made for the revolving doors.

  37

  Outside, the overcast day scalded her feverish eyes and tears streamed down her face. She wiped them away angrily with the back of her hand.

  It was stifling out, but she hardly cared. The humidity pressed down upon her head and the air smelled of gasoline, of burning things. Sleek black town cars idled softly against the spotless curb. She walked, head down, staring at the sidewalk through bleary eyes. When she did raise her head, people leered at her—deviant, hungry looks in their eyes. In the sky, carrion birds were circling on unseen vortices—wide wings in search of prey.