He shut the cabinet. I froze. One glance up and he'd see me. But he was staring intently at a pill bottle as if he didn't understand its language. Was there a single one of Klara's seducers not foreign born? I wondered. How curious. I stepped forward, pausing at Klara's bedside. There were more letters on the table. These looked different than the ones she'd written to Father, in heavier cream-colored envelopes. She seemed only to tell the truth in correspondence, so I quickly snatched them up and placed them in my blazer pocket. Just then I heard a rustling and saw, in the mirror, a flash of ocular green.
"Hello, Milo."
Had those eyes seen me take them? No. There was a different expression in them, one that told me he knew that I knew about the diary. But I couldn't confront him about that yet. There were some nagging details to clear up first. "Do you need something from Klara's medicine cabinet?" I asked.
"Only her vitamin tablets." He put the pill bottle into his pocket and drifted out of the yellow bathroom light, into the pale sunlit room. He paused before the dresser and gazed out the balcony door. "You know I have many more stories I could tell you about the Foreign Legion. We should sit down one evening with a bottle of wine, fine cheese. I can tell you anything you want to know."
"You're a storyteller, too," I said.
He smiled, a thin tight gash in his rugged face. "I am sorry, Milo. It seems we have had many misunderstandings, you and I."
"But you're ready to put those behind us."
"If you wish."
"Did you know my father?"
He hesitated, fingering the shark's tooth, pressing his thumb onto the point. I wondered what my mention of Father would do. I didn't have to wait very long. He pushed on the tooth. Carefully, until it just broke skin. "I knew his work," he said.
"Not the man?"
He waited until a drop of blood formed. Then, to my surprise, he pushed harder, grunting until I heard the crunch of bone. It went clear through, bulged out the other side beneath the nail, which turned almost instantly black.
"Was there much difference?" he said calmly as the blood welled up and began dripping in Rorschach patterns across the floor. "I suppose you, of all people, ought to know." He smiled. I blinked furiously. Was he showing me this to prove he was a fiction—a character capable of anything? He twisted and pulled the tooth back out. Blood leaked across his hand. He gave a grim thumbs-up. You see? he was telling me. You wanted a story, but I have given you something better: a demonstration.
"I just wondered if you'd ever met him," I said, determined not to be afraid, telling myself: He's only hurting himself. He's only hurting himself. I tried to find it funny. Only I couldn't bring myself to laugh. Still he must have noticed something, because he put the thumb into his mouth like a perturbed infant, and when he pulled it out again it was perfectly normal. Even the nail was back in place, with no sign of any harm. He seemed disappointed.
"Ah." He wiped his thumb on his pants. There was not a trace of blood. Even the stains on the floor were gone. "No, I never had the pleasure of meeting him."
"Before A Portrait of the Artist he drove around looking at gardens. Ones he could use for the settings of his book. I wonder if he ever saw yours."
"He inspired me, it is true, but no, I did not inspire him."
"Inspired you to become Keith Sentelle?"
A deadness suddenly clouded his eyes, like a curtain falling. "Excuse me?"
I must have felt reassured after making those visions go away, after disbelieving them. I said: "There was a gruesome dismemberment in a state park near Burlington. This was shortly after Father's book came out. A copycat murder. The killer was never found."
A curl of hair had fallen across his cheek. He didn't bother to push it back. He was looking straight at me, giving nothing away. "Klara tells me you have your father's imagination. So tell me more, create me in the image you see."
I hesitated, which was of course what he wanted—to fill me with self-doubt. But I quickly found an added reservoir of strength. "Maybe you did it as a sort of homage. A way to show how much the book meant to you. And you knew just how to do it. Your time in Africa must have taught you that."
"You make me both grateful and interesting."
"Then you disappeared for a time," I went on. "And when you returned you'd stolen the identity of this older gardener, Henri Blanc. Did you know him? Or was he just the perfect person to replace—one who could help you become Keith for real?" I paused. "No matter. This new Henri Blanc got exactly what he wanted. To work for lonely disposable women who wouldn't ask too many questions." I thrust out my fingers one at a time. "Marybeth Bliss, Peggy Sporleder, Phyllis Green, Yvonne Dutton."
"You have found the names of my former clients," he said carefully. "Congratulations."
"They're all rich like Klara."
"Most clients of serious gardeners are."
"Did you seduce them too?"
He picked up one of the figurines on the dresser. I could see the anger in his hands, and for the first time a touch of fear.
"Yes, you're seducing Klara and trying to scare me off," I went on. "All by the book, as they say. Were you attracted by Klara's wealth? And by how fitting it would be to turn Father's most famous character against his own grieving children?"
"Grieving?" he said, suddenly perking up again. "An interesting choice of words."
He gave a slight smile as my mind raced in many directions at once. "You met Klara when you were both up in Burlington," I said. "Was she the one who introduced you to Mrs. Silfer?"
Another shot in the dark. He looked at me curiously.
"What I can't figure out," I went on, "is whether Klara helped you plan all this. Or is she a victim too?"
He turned the figurine over in his hands. It was a unicorn, I noticed. "I suppose your story remains incomplete," he said, "if you cannot answer that question."
He set the figurine back on the dresser, facing away from me—all I could see was its white porcelain tail. This too helped me disbelieve. "It doesn't matter," I said. "Even if she did help you, you were the one pulling the strings. You're a con man and a killer."
"If you say so."
Yes, I said it over and over to myself: he was just a con man and a killer—one who'd become enchanted by the notion of becoming this famous fictional character and acting out his peculiar brand of manipulative horror. Still it was difficult, especially when he turned the unicorn around. Now its horn was facing me, shining in the light. What if he were Keith for real? I wondered. "Anyway, what is a con man?" he went on. "One who pulls the strings? Where do you get such notions?" He shook his head. "Don't you see? You can't ever escape playing the roles that others have written."
"Unless I'm the author."
He sighed. "You think of an author as a god. A creative genius. But what is that? Another story. Nobody creates anything new. All writers do is rearrange old plots. In a way it's like nature. Our own bodies. Every atom inside us is borrowed from somewhere else."
"There you go again. Sounding just like Keith." I couldn't take my eyes off that unicorn.
"You keep returning to this character," he said. "Trying to change me into someone I am not."
"He was a good liar. Just like you."
"And a good storyteller? Just like you?"
I looked at him—his weathered face, depthless eyes, bunched-back hair. I thought of his creativity as a gardener. Also what Leo had said about him missing his calling. "You're the one trying to tell a story here. About me."
"Ah." I watched a slight smile creep across his face. "You do not need my help for that. You tell the story quite well yourself. In your own words."
The diary. I could see it clearly now. How he was determined to twist this tale, to cast me in the role of villain. Again I thought of Keith. His murders had also told stories, imposed narratives on the unwilling.
&nb
sp; "I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
He glanced around. "There is no one here to fool. Only me. And I know what really happened."
"Because you read my diary? It's just words. Just stories, as you say."
"It is an admission, as they will say."
"No one will believe it."
He sighed. "It is in your own handwriting. Klara herself can authenticate it."
"She wouldn't do that. I'm her brother."
"Don't be naïve," he said, flashing a sad sympathetic smile, as if he really did feel sorry for me. "She too finds your tale irresistible."
I don't know what I would've done if Alicia, the makeup artist, hadn't arrived at that moment—if I hadn't seen Henri's face change into a placid mask, his demeanor into the charming Frenchman. I might have lost control, attacked him or broken down. Perhaps that's what he wanted, to bring matters to a head, to force me into rash, unconsidered action that would only validate his story. And whose side would Klara be on? Which tale would she believe?These were the question he'd planted in my mind. I'd been so sure, after yesterday's embrace, of her allegiance. But now I began having doubts. Had he shown her the diary already? Pointed out the relevant passages and had her confirm that yes, it's him, it's what he must have done? I didn't know, and not knowing made me anxious, made me beat a strategic retreat to the attic where I might think and plan for every contingency. And it was there, under those exposed beams, that something occurred to me, something that gave me pause. He was bluffing. He hadn't had any time alone with her today. And yesterday, when she'd confronted me—when I'd confronted her—she'd hardly acted like someone who'd just read my secret diary.
Even so, I knew it was only a matter of time. No matter what I did or said, he'd show her—and the police—my diary eventually. And it was this prospect more than anything else—the prospect of losing control of the narrative, of losing everything—that made me remember the letters in my pocket.
The first thing I noticed was that they were not from Klara, they were to her. I saw her name printed in old-fashioned script across the envelopes: the swooping K, Crane's dying e. They were recently postmarked and bore no return addresses and had all been slit open across the top. The paper was thick cotton bond and didn't slide out easily. I had to pinch the envelope and pull hard to get it free. I opened the topmost one that way, surprised to see only two sheets inside. The paper was cream-colored, like the envelopes, and had a visible weave. Clearly designed to impress. I unfolded it.
My dear Klara, the first one began. It was dated some weeks before.
I wanted to tell you again how excited I am at the prospect of our working together. I have spoken to Elizabeth Silfer and she can do without my full attention for the summer. What I wish you to do now is to visualize and to feel. I have sketched a little idea of mine on the next page, but I do not want you to look at it yet. First think back to childhood. We were all a bit more liberal with our imaginations then. What has always been your ideal garden? We all have an ideal garden in us, le jardin idéal, I am convinced of that. That picture, once you have it in mind, will not be the end of the process. It will be a beginning, the seed from which our garden will grow. A flower is not just a picture. It is the translation of a picture into a real object in space. Always remember that.
Yours,
H
On the following page was an ink sketch of a trellis full of hanging flowers in front of a mass of jagged pines.
Now walk over the places where these flowers will go—touch the soil, feel the sun on your face, breathe l'air frais. Do not be afraid to sense the environment! Use all your senses! Smell the flowers, feel them, hear them in the breeze. Taste them. Have you ever tasted a rose petal? I will show you how.
This would be just the thing to appeal to Klara. Tasting the flowers. I could imagine exactly how she'd do it, closing her eyes and placing a rose petal on her tongue, letting it bathe in her mucus without chewing as her mind sought the appropriate metaphor. It was also a nice touch to add a little autobiographical sketch in the letter that followed.
I am reminded of the very first garden I ever helped design. I had just gotten out of the military. Did you know I was in the military? I was a Legionnaire, in my wilder days. I was an ordinary soldier at first, with my special carte d'identité and my uniforme and all the rest. What a silly boy I was. I look back and I think: was that really me? Was I really so brash? I was, until it came time to actually fight and kill and die (yes, we did some of that). You will be happy to learn that as soon as this time came, I knew right away that la vie du soldat was not for me. Perhaps I was not brave enough, or strong enough, but one day, watching my friend John get shot in the leg and nearly die on a dusty African street corner in the middle of nowhere—it was enough to show me how precious little of "la vie" was really in this life. It is a cliché, I know, but you never get over the sight of a man so helpless. His leg was soaked in blood. It was like somebody had poured the blood on top of it. And he was so scared, twisting in such indescribable pain, and the leg kept shaking and twitching and he kept grabbing it to make sure it was still there. He was afraid someone was going to cut it off. All he wanted was to save his leg. We carried him back to our base. The other men with me said he'd be fine and that we'd get the one who did this to him. But they were saying this only because they'd heard it said in movies. In truth we were all shocked. John never really recovered. He became bitter. Years later I visited him in London, and he was selling pornographic magazines from a little sidewalk stand and limped away when the police came. He never opened a bakery, which was his dream.
And I? I transferred to another unit and became a military policeman. I don't know why I thought this would be better, that I would be able to do some good. We worked under impossible conditions. Fly-eaten bodies in the streets, people on either side shouting and pointing fingers. Ancient tribal hatreds, not to mention the cruelty of my fellow Legionnaires. Still I did it for several years. I investigated murders and so-called war crimes and all the darkest, most malevolent things that men can do. I wrote reports. Sometimes things happened to those responsible. Sometimes not.
Afterwards I returned to Paris with the vague notion of doing something else entirely, of helping to nurture life instead of destroying it or watching it destroy itself. But I did not know how. I considered becoming a nurse or even a doctor. Then an old friend went on holiday and left me in charge of his garden. It was full of bright lilies and sunflowers and was so peaceful and delightful. I spent entire afternoons there. I also went to the library and read everything I could, not only about taking care of flowers but about what flowers meant to people, what they stood for. When he returned I told him I had an idea for how he could better take advantage of the afternoon light in order to make the flowers glow. He allowed me to suggest some small improvements. In the end he was so happy. He recommended me to someone else, and violá! A gardener was born! But what I wanted to say was that this first garden of mine also suffered from the problems of allumer et l'ombre that we discussed last time. What I have tried to show you on the sketch on the next page is how we can better . . .
And so on. How extraordinary. I'd never quite believed in Henri as a real person with a past, etc. But here he was, nearly leaping off the page. It made me realize what an effective writer he was—a dangerously seductive storyteller. But was this true? It occurred to me that Henri may have made it all up to prey on Klara's sympathies for victims of violence. After all, it was the first rule of writing: know your audience. It was also the first thing that Keith always did before selecting his victims: research.
Then I saw his most recent letter. Dearest Klara, it began.
I cannot tell you how happy I am with the progress of the garden. It is everything we dreamed about. And the vision you have contributed has been breathtaking. It is like you were meant to do this, like you are finally becoming the person you were destined to be.
This is obvious by how you are blossoming as much as any of the roses. Blossoming in every way as a woman. As a creative spirit. I simply cannot get the feel of you, the scent of you, off my mind. When I leave you I am in a stupor. I long for your passion. There is so much life in you, Klara, that has been waiting so long to come out. And it is that way for me, too. I feel I have been waiting for you my entire life. Everything I have achieved as a gardener was only a preliminary to you. I imagined you before I saw you, and when I saw you I knew.
I quickly stuffed the letter back in its envelope, burying these words, these manipulations, which I saw now were such obvious contrivances. And the proof was right there, in the invoices that accompanied them. The first one was for $1000 for a "creative consultation" and the next nearly twice that for "imaginative design." Each letter extracted just a little bit more, until by the end she'd been billed nearly a hundred thousand dollars. It took my breath away.
I was just replacing the other letters in their envelopes when I turned one of the envelopes around to get a better angle. On the back of it, European-style, was the return address: H. Blanc, 54 Walcott Way, Battenkill, VT 05284.
I smiled.
The afternoon was filled with film crews and mock interviews, false faces and cardboard façades and even falser words: "That's so interesting! A wooden horse?"
"A Trojan Horse. I was working on it when the accident happened."
"And what's this?"
"Pieces of a Greek trireme. It wasn't exactly right. I had to start over."
"Wow. Now that's dedication. Still, it's all Greek to me." [Cue laughter].
Otherwise it was a day of planning, thinking, imagining the surprise ending I had in store for him. I read. I thought. I observed. In the late afternoon I saw them arguing on the patio, under a fly-eaten sun. Klara had her hair set in cascades of curls with that ridiculous white streak prominently displayed. Her eyes were glassy and distant like those of her porcelain figurines. "Are you alright?" Henri asked, his shirt open at the collar. But he was all business. The shark's tooth necklace was gone. A sheet of paper dangled from his fingers.
The Garden of Blue Roses Page 20