Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  She saw the neighboring neon cobbler’s sign before she saw Maurice’s shop, and, hurrying now, she rushed upon the doorway to Obscura & Co. Itzy ignored the CLOSED sign and entered, the door triggering a far-off bell.

  Maurice was waiting behind the counter, paging through an open catalog. Soft French pop music drifted from the speakers. Beside him on the countertop was a flat wax-coated envelope and, without looking up, he pushed it toward her.

  “Photography, of course, is an exercise in opposites,” he said, lifting his head.

  Itzy paused, catching her breath.

  “Black and white. Light and dark. It is no accident that film shoots in the negative, and only through developing is the positive revealed. It requires great skill to navigate such extremes, to mold them into something of worth. I say worth—for it is not always a thing of beauty we create, now is it? A photograph can be brutal. What’s the one thing a photograph always reveals, Itzy?”

  Itzy shook her head, dumbstruck.

  “A photograph always reveals the truth.”

  Itzy reached for the envelope.

  “Oh,” Maurice added casually. “It helps that the silver crystals on the film’s emulsion are particularly good at picking up the supernatural.”

  He reached into the counter below him and plunked a small black object down on the glass.

  “Don’t say I never gave you anything.” He smiled.

  Itzy looked. It was a cylindrical object meant for looking through. Small white letters around its rim spelled out LOUPE.

  “Do you have anything for me?” Maurice asked.

  Itzy looked momentarily confused, but then she reached into her pocket, remembering. She pulled out her roll of film from the basement.

  “How did you find the IR?”

  “That remains to be seen.” She smiled. “Maurice, what war did you know Luc from?”

  Maurice studied Itzy, and she felt her face go scarlet. “It was a long time ago, Itzy. Luc disgraced himself, sadly. You are his last hope, you know.”

  “I’m his last hope?” Itzy scoffed. The image of his hand on Pippa’s was burned into her memory.

  “Luc lost something very, very rare. And very, very powerful. He is devastated, but not as devastated as we all shall be if it’s not returned. And time is running out.” Maurice pushed the roll of film into a small envelope.

  “So. Shall I put a rush on this?” he asked, holding it up.

  “Seems so.” Itzy suddenly felt very tired.

  The table by the lightbox was empty today, but the paper coffee cups spoke of a recent gathering.

  She slid the contact sheet out from its casing and examined the print, flicking the toggle switch on the lightbox. The film had been cut into several segments and exposed to a timed beam of light, its images revealed on the paper to exact scale. Numbers, sprocket holes, and other manufacturing details ran along the edges. There was a slight tang to the paper’s smell; the processing chemicals reminded her of home.

  “How did Luc disgrace himself?” Itzy asked peeking up at Maurice.

  “That is Luc’s story to tell, isn’t it?”

  Itzy looked down at the contact sheet again, placing it on the light. The first few images were of home, Itzy saw. She had taken several photographs of her house, as an exposure test—but also to remember it by. An unexpected pang of homesickness hit her. There was one of her father looking harried the day he left for the airport.

  A few were from the Blue Room, and Itzy recoiled at the blurred image of the dark, skittering creature as it ran to her closet. It was shadowy and it seemed to defy light, but Itzy saw that this was no rat; it had giant pincers protruding from its abdomen.

  Her eyes then wandered to an image of Luc. It was outside Grand Central, the day she had met him. She held the loupe up to her eye and peered through the magnifying lens.

  The wind had just stolen his umbrella, and he was reaching for it. Faint crescents rose from his sides. They were thin and uneven, but unmistakable. She traced them with a fingernail.

  They were wings.

  38

  The walk back to the Carlyle was uneventful. She was half-expecting the horse and cruel carriage, so she walked quickly and kept her head down. She charged through the lobby in much the same way, hoping desperately to make it back to her aunt’s suite and examine the photographs further without seeing Luc or Pippa.

  “Miss Nash?” the desk clerk called politely as Itzy jumped. “I beg your pardon. There’s a package here for you.”

  Itzy smiled wanly and walked over. She thanked the clerk and stared down at the package. It was thin and wide and wrapped in plain brown paper. Her name was written on the front in careful scrawl. She tore it open.

  Inside was a burnt-orange box with an excess of brown ribbon, small embossed brown lettering spelling out the word HERMÈS. The box was filled with starched tissue, closed with an elegant oval sticker, which, when Itzy peeled it away, revealed a vibrant silk scarf. There was a note, and she read it eagerly.

  Itzy,

  Make sure to tie it properly. The correct presentation concentrates the demon-fighting power of the scarf in a tight mace-like knot.

  Yours in arms,

  Ava

  Itzy unfolded the scarf carefully. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given her.

  Several papers drifted down to the floor, freed from its folds. More reading material from Ava. When Itzy bent down to retrieve the scattered papers, she felt the nail of a long, thin finger jab her on the shoulder.

  Itzy straightened. The air smelled of perfume.

  “Back to bite the other ankle?” she asked, turning.

  Pippa had been crying, Itzy realized, and she quashed a momentary pang of sympathy.

  “Paris is missing.” Pippa sniffed as her eyes filled with water. Long streaks of her perfect skin peeked though a layer of makeup—trails of earlier tears.

  “Last I looked, Paris was still in France,” Itzy managed, before sighing. “I’m sorry—but it’s a dumb name for a dog,” she muttered.

  Itzy looked at the girl. She was a mess. Her eyes were swollen and her nose was red. “What do you mean missing?” Itzy asked carefully.

  “Missing. As in gone. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

  “Right about the time she was digging her pointy little teeth into my ankle, you mean?”

  Pippa sagged again. “I was hoping—I don’t know. Luc said I should ask you.”

  This was a stunning piece of news, and Itzy tried hard not to betray her surprise.

  39

  “You look awful,” Pippa said, blinking, and finally fixing her eyes on Itzy as though seeing her for the first time.

  “You’re one to talk,” Itzy shot back. Her hand fluttered to her forehead. “Actually, I don’t feel so good.”

  “I’ll call the doctor—”

  “No!” Itzy’s voice echoed throughout the lobby. Pippa looked startled. “I mean, no, thank you. I just need some rest.”

  “I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

  Itzy looked at her suspiciously.

  “Come on, it’s the least I could do. I promise—I won’t bite.”

  Itzy smiled despite herself.

  At the elevator bank, the girls were quiet.

  “Nice scarf,” Pippa offered.

  “Thanks,” Itzy said. “It was a gift.”

  “A timeless accessory.”

  “Something like that.”

  The scarf was a large square, and it ran through her fingers like water. The corners were rolled and hand-stitched—a thing of beauty. Ava had chosen one with gold and rich deep reds. The border was an intricately forged chain of gold, with a pair of beautiful wings in the center—their scarlet and gilt feathers heavy and luxurious, so detailed they might drift off the fabric and float to the floor.

  “In Paris, at the Hermès shop on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, they do this fabulous thing,” Pippa said. “Have you been?”

  Itzy shook her
head.

  “The glass countertop snakes around the whole showroom, and in it are nothing but scarves. Hundreds upon thousands of scarves. When you ask to see one, the shop clerk—like a magician—will shake it out at you in such a way that the silk billows and floats slowly before your face, settling down on the countertop on a puff of air. And then it’s whisked away for another one. The room is near silent—just shimmering colors, the sounds of silk sliding through practiced fingers. It’s just you, and color, and waves and waves of silk floating on clouds of air. Rather perfect.”

  And all that concentrated demon-fighting power in one place.

  The elevators were taking longer than usual, and Itzy was growing impatient. She remembered Wold earlier; his crisp demeanor had abandoned him as he had rushed across the polished floor. “This VIP will be the death of Wold,” she said aloud. “The entire hotel seems on edge. I hope they just hurry up and arrive.”

  “Mother says she already has.”

  “Really?” Itzy was surprised. “Who is it?”

  “Some royal.” Pippa shrugged. “A shadow queen, I’m told. Deposed—in exile. Waiting to regain her throne.”

  In the elevator, Itzy watched as Pippa fished out a tube from her purse and applied scarlet lipstick to her lips in two perfect swipes. “I think I know where you can find your dog,” Itzy blurted. “But it’s not pretty.”

  “How bad can it be?” Pippa asked her reflection.

  Itzy opened the door to 1804 with Pippa behind her. “Are you sure you want to see this?”

  Pippa nodded, jaw set in a determined line.

  The girls entered her aunt’s small foyer and were instantly hit with a blast of dry heat.

  “What’s that smell?” Pippa asked, appalled.

  Warily, Itzy pushed open the door to the living room.

  It was a hive of activity. The toile couches had been rearranged to make room for a long table that took up one entire wall. On the table, Itzy saw, were the flowers from Mrs. Brill, as well as many other bouquets—most still in their clear cellophane wrap. Everything was wilting in the heat. Every available surface was piled with offerings—boxes of bonbons, pyramids of marzipan fruit—a feast for the flies. In the corner, a large harp had been introduced, and a young woman plucked at it idly.

  “You say she’s your governess?” Pippa whispered.

  Itzy shrugged. “My aunt’s idea.”

  “What’s that in her hair—a crown?”

  “Flypaper.”

  The governess sat in the middle of everything on a high-backed chair, exchanging words with Dr. Jenkins in low tones. Atop her hair was the spent coil of the Venus Flytrap. Even from the door, Itzy could see it was covered in flies. She wore the fox fur still, and at her feet was a plump woman, busily attending to the governess’s feet, filing her heels brusquely with a large paddle.

  Itzy nudged Pippa in the ribs, mouth set in a grim line. In the governess’s lap sat the dog.

  “Paris! ” Pippa gasped.

  “She calls it Mopsie,” Itzy said dully.

  The dog shifted, turning its head in their direction. One of its ears was missing, a ragged black hole. A thin string of saliva hung from its mouth.

  “I think, Pippa, it might be time for a new dog,” Itzy whispered, squeezing her hand.

  “Poor chou-chou,” Pippa said, blinking back tears. “What happened to her?”

  “Come on. My room’s this way.”

  The pair darted down the small hall.

  “We can try to rescue her—if you want,” Itzy said.

  Pippa swallowed. “There’s, er, something dead in her eyes.”

  Things from Hell are broken, corrupt, and defiled.

  “I don’t really think that’s Paris anymore, if you know what I mean,” Itzy finally said. The girls sat numbly on Itzy’s iron bed together. “I think something funny’s going on at this hotel,” Itzy confessed.

  “I think you’re right.” Pippa nodded gloomily. “Mother’s been strange. Stranger than usual. Course it’s hard to tell with all the plastic surgery she’s gotten.” Pippa turned to Itzy with her eyes wide and face frozen with a blank expression. Itzy giggled. “She and the doctor are inseparable. If he gives her any more Botox, she won’t be able to blink.”

  “Dr. Jenkins is a plastic surgeon?” Itzy thought of the doctor’s office, the shining ampoules in the glass cabinet.

  “What else? Itzy, this is the Upper East Side. Mother even wanted to name the dog Botox, but I put my foot down.”

  “In hindsight, I see why you settled on Paris.”

  Itzy did her own imitation of Mrs. Brill and the two fell over laughing.

  Itzy took a deep breath. “Pippa, can I ask you something?”

  “Ask away.”

  “This morning I saw you with Luc. At the restaurant.”

  Pippa nodded. Birds—pigeons most likely—cooed in the air shaft out the lone window.

  “Are you—do you … like him?” Itzy blurted.

  “Luc?” Pippa laughed, throwing back her head. “No! Itzy.” Pippa looked at her, shaking her head. “Hardly!” Pippa smiled. “Ever since you got here, all he talks about is you.”

  “Oh.” Itzy’s ankle throbbed, and she was savaged with a wave of chills, but for once she didn’t care.

  40

  “You should drink something,” Pippa advised Itzy. “At least let me get you some water. Never underestimate the power of hydration.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” Itzy said. “And the water tastes funny.”

  “We could send up for some. Or I might have something—” She rummaged in her calfskin purse. “Here. Take mine. You have to drink—you’re sick.” Pippa opened a bottle of water and, not finding a glass, handed over the entire thing.

  “Thanks,” Itzy smiled weakly. “Shouldn’t I be worried it’s poisoned?”

  Pippa smiled and took a sip out of the bottle of Evian.

  “There. Our fates are sealed. Now. You must let me call the doctor in for that ankle.”

  Itzy sat bolt upright, a look of panic overtaking her flushed face.

  “No—Pippa! You can’t. Not him. Something’s just not right with that man.”

  “Yeah. It is criminal what he charges for a consultation.” Pippa leaned across and put her hand on Itzy forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “Actually, I’m freezing.” A wave of chills swept over Itzy, and she shivered.

  “What can I do? I feel responsible. It was my dog that bit you, after all.”

  She tossed the pamphlet from Ava’s Hermès delivery at Pippa. “You can start by reading this,” Itzy said.

  Pippa opened it.

  Ava Quant's

  OBSERVATIONS

  Historical and theological, upon the NATURE and NUMBER of the OPERATIONS of

  divahS.

  Accompanied with Accounts of A brief treatise on the Grievous Molestations that have Annoyed the country, with several remarkable CURIOSITIES therein occurring, and some CONJECTURES on the GREAT EVENTS likely to Befall.

  I.Ava, what do divahs EAT?

  A.They avoid carbs.

  B.Actually, they eat only putrid food. But Clostridium botulinum, the botulism toxin, is their preferred diet.

  II.And how do they get their food?

  A.Dented cans.

  B.Rotting meat.

  C.Or the readily available and highly popular anti-wrinkle subdermal injection, Botox. Botox, by far, is the meal of choice for the demon set.

  III.What exactly is BOTOX?

  A.A deadly neurotoxin. Botox is a trademarked brand name. People pay money to have it injected into their faces. It is particularly enjoyed around the eyes. This bacterium, the Clostridium botulinum, is irresistible to divahs.

  B.Note: This can be a problem for the non-demons who have participated in this boutique surgery procedure, for it makes their flesh irresistible to divahs. This is perhaps yet another explanation for the concentration of demons on the Upper East Side.

  C.DO NOT attempt to
approach a divah if you've had Botox work performed in the past eight months.

  Itzy consented to another round of aspirin and she swallowed them down with Pippa’s bottle of Evian. Pippa had rummaged in the small servant’s bathroom and found a few water-stained Band-Aids and a dubious bottle of iodine. She insisted on removing Itzy’s sock.

  Itzy lay back on the thin mattress. The blue coverlet felt coarse and scratchy, and the aspirin felt lodged deep in her throat.

  Pippa began slowly unwinding the gauze that Luc had dressed the wound in, taking care to handle Itzy’s ankle delicately. Even so, the slightest pressure sent waves of searing pain up her leg.

  “Stay still! Believe it or not, I do this all the time for my mother, post-op. Her various nips and tucks, you know. I’m a regular Nurse Nightingale. The tummy tuck was the worst. It got infected and stank to high heaven.” She had removed the last of Luc’s dressing. “Here, it might be easier if you hang your leg over the side of the bed. I’m almost done. Mother’s got this great big stash of pills—perhaps I should get you something—except with Mother you never know what you’re getting. Oh.” Pippa dropped the leg and pulled her hands back to her chest, looking at Itzy’s ankle with undisguised horror. “Oh no—”

  41

  The room was spinning as people peered down upon her sickbed. Strange faces—eager, glinting eyes. Unknown cloaked figures, darkened features—the one light on the ceiling cast them in dark shadows. The smell of incense—burning, pungent herbs—was in the air.

  The horde parted suddenly, and against the dull ceiling a single figure appeared, bending down. Itzy tried hard to focus but her eyes were so tired, the room so hot.

  The governess crouched over her. Flypaper dangled from her ear.

  She appeared to be sniffing at her, a look of immense disapproval on her face. She held Paris in her arms, one of the dog’s legs swaying uselessly. She straightened, turning.

  “Jenkins, attend at once.”

  The room grew dim, and Itzy struggled to stay conscious. The doctor stepped forward, his bag open at the foot of her iron bed. His cane gleamed, catching the light from above. The end was pointed and barbed.