“You’re misjudging him.”
Arlington leveled a look at her. “I want your promise.”
She hesitated and then gave him a reluctant nod.
“Good. I don’t want to have to tell you again.”
Then a moment later Arlington brightened and said: “Let’s go to that little shop you like. Sapia wanted you to pick out something nice for yourself. We’ll put it on my bill.”
When Lucia came off the causeway that afternoon, she saw Gabriel waiting for her under the oaks with a bunch of red poppies his hand. He looked glad to see her, hopeful and tense. The sun was still high in the sky, making the rivulets on the mudflats gleam like mirrors. Black-winged stilts ran here and there on their stick legs, scooping up brine flies in their needle beaks. He greeted her warmly and gave her the poppies.
She hesitated, but only for a moment before taking them. “I’m not supposed to see you,” she said, falling into step beside him.
“Who says?”
“Arlington. He thinks you’re a reporter after a story. That you want to make mischief for Sapia.”
Gabriel ran his fingers through his hair. “I always want to make mischief.” He gave her his crooked smile. “Did you ask him about the séance?”
“He won’t let you come. He doesn’t trust you.”
“Did you mention my brother?”
“Yes, but he said he has his rules.”
“His rules,” he muttered bitterly.
“He’s worried about bringing negativity into the room. Madame Palladino finds it difficult when journalists are present.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“She says it muddies the aether. Makes it harder for her to contact her guide.”
“That’s convenient,” he said, his mouth a rigid line of disappointment. “What does he think I’ll find?”
“He doesn’t think you’ll find anything. He’s merely thinking of Sapia.”
He stopped to watch a group of children playing on the beach. “Haven’t you ever been curious?”
“About what?” She didn’t like his tone.
“It’s not hard to make spirits appear out of thin air. Did you know that?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“They have tricks, you know. They’re like magicians. They are very clever. It’s nothing to make guitars float about and play by themselves. I have done it myself. I could show you how it’s done.”
“I must be getting back, monsieur. I’ll be late. I’m sorry you could not be part of it. I think you would have been surprised. It might have gone a long way to answering your concerns.”
“I’m not saying that your Madame Palladino is a fraud. I’m just saying that she could use a trick or two once in a while and you’d never know it. I thought you might be interested in seeing a few. Just out of curiosity.”
“I do not like tricks, monsieur. Sapia uses her extraordinary gifts to help people. I have seen it with my own eyes, many times. If you do not believe that, then we have nothing to talk about.”
Lucia turned and walked on with long, determined strides, skirting the puddles left by the morning rain. Her heart thrummed as she ran up the steps to the hotel, disappointment weighing on her chest. This was not how she envisioned their meeting. As much as she hated to admit it, Arlington was right not to let him into the circle. He would have polluted it with suppositions and suspicions. Now, she didn’t know what to think of him. Her previous feelings for him had mutated into a welter of new ones, leaving her confused, disappointed, and restless.
The séance went late that night and Lucia was exhausted by the time they returned to the hotel. Sapia wanted to stay up and talk. She was hurt and indignant because John King had behaved so badly that night, throwing a fit and saying awful things about their host. “I am so upset with him. I cannot imagine falling asleep.”
Lucia took her up to her room and listened to her complaints, nodding sympathetically. This apparently had a salubrious effect on Sapia, for soon she was yawning and ready for bed.
It wasn’t long before Lucia was able to return to her own room, grateful for the time alone. She was just taking out her hairpins when a knock came at the door. It was the bellboy with a note. He said he was to wait for an answer. She tore it open and read it quickly. Come out with me. It’s a beautiful night. Not a jellyfish in sight.
When she came down to the lobby, she found Gabriel sitting by the fire.
“We can’t stay here,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“He might see us.”
He got up and followed her to the door. The night was chilly, ruffled by a tangy breeze from the ocean; the streets were dark and deserted. They strolled along the sea wall and watched the tide come in, lit by a shimmering swath of moonlight. It had almost reached the shore when, one by one, the boats that had been lying on their sides in the mud began to right themselves in the water.
“I wanted to explain about what happened earlier,” he said.
“You were horrible.”
He laughed. “No need to mince words.”
“You hardly know her. Have you ever been to her circles?”
“Once or twice.”
“You should have seen the ones in Italy. They were wonderful.” She told him about Rosalia, the snakes, the apparitions, and, in the last séance, a ghostly face glowing in the dark.
Here he stopped her. “Did you know that some mediums make it a practice of cutting out pictures from magazines? They paste them onto a mask that’s been painted with phosphorescence. It’s not hard to make a glowing head bounce around the room. I could show you how it’s done.”
“I’m telling you that she performs miracles and you talk about tricks? No trick could possibly explain the things I’ve seen. How could you know what I’m talking about when you haven’t seen it for yourself?” When she told him about the writing on her arm, he gave her one his smiles and took her hand. He turned it over and began to unbutton her cuff.
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer; instead he slowly pushed up her sleeve. She did nothing to take back her hand. She was more concerned about hiding her pleasure than making him stop. With the tip of his finger he pretended to write on her arm. She thought he was teasing her.
After that they walked back to the hotel and stood under the lamplight to say good night. She wondered if he was going to kiss her and what she would do if he did. Instead he took her arm again and pushed up her sleeve.
“What’s this?” he asked innocently. He turned her arm so that she could see the one word written there. Tricks.
“Stop it,” she said, rubbing it out. “Do you think it’s funny?”
“It’s a solution that acts with the oil on your skin. It’s similar to invisible ink.”
“It’s a cheap trick. I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to hurt her. You’re trying to discredit her so you can put her in your newspaper.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious? Don’t you want to know?”
“I do know. It is very clear. Arlington was right about you. You are not to be trusted. You have no honor, Monsieur. You are no friend.”
She wasn’t sure what she did after that. Even by her own admission she acted a little irrational, carrying on, shouting at him in Polish. She told him that she never wanted to see him again and if he came to see her, she would call the proprietor and have him thrown out.
“Calm down. I was just trying to help. I thought if you saw—”
“Go away.”
“Yes, all right, I’m leaving. But listen, do me one favor. Ask them about Cambridge. Cambridge, and then you’ll see.”
Lucia never meant to ask about Cambridge. She told herself it wasn’t important, that she should put it out of her mind. Nevertheless, she found herself thinking about it, mostly at night. Finally, at the end of the week, on their last morning in Port-des-Barques, it came to her that there was probably a simple explanation, an
d that if she asked Arlington about it, he would put the matter to rest. They were in the dining room finishing up their breakfast. Sapia was still asleep, so it was once again just the two of them at the table. Arlington sat across from her reading his newspaper, absently dipping his croissant into his coffee. When she asked him about Cambridge he looked up, the pastry dripping on the starched white tablecloth. He didn’t answer her at first. He seemed to be sifting through a tangle of feelings that she could only guess at.
“Cambridge. Yes,” he said, letting out a breath. “I suppose you read about it somewhere and now you want an explanation.” He abandoned the pastry and looked over at her. “Well, what can I say about it? We were at the university. We were doing a series of sittings for the Society for Psychical Research.”
His gaze flicked out the window to a one-legged newsboy selling papers on the corner and then came back. “They made such a big deal out of it at the time. They didn’t have to do that. She was upset that night. A couple of blanks, and she gets desperate. You’ve never seen her like that. But take my word for it she’ll do anything when she gets like that. She is a very talented and powerful medium. I believe this with all my heart. But, yes, on the third night she used a trick.”
Lucia flared. “She cheated?”
“It was a clumsy attempt. They caught her right away. Why do you think I watch her so closely? Why do you think you’re here?”
“And you still trust her?”
“She doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. I’ve exposed the best.”
“What if you are wrong?”
“I’ve never seen a medium like her before, Lucia. She is truly the white crow—the one that William James talks about—the exception, the honest medium. And she is honest for the most part. It’s just that once in a while, when she’s scared or impatient, there’s a danger she might slip.”
This was not the explanation that Lucia was looking for. It was not the one she was expecting. Still, once she thought about it, it wasn’t too hard to understand. Hadn’t she felt the pressure of having to perform? She knew well that plunging sick feeling. She supposed that she ought to chalk it up to a stupid mistake and leave it at that. It wasn’t easy, it took some time, but eventually that’s exactly what she did. Over the many months that followed, Lucia became adept at pushing away the nagging doubts. Mostly she focused on Sapia’s prodigious talents, the mystery of her séances, and her generous spirit, and in this way she was almost able to forget that she had ever heard of Cambridge.
III.
CHAPTER 12
April 1906
The office of Le Matin was located on the second floor of a bank building on rue de Rivoli not too far from the Hôtel de Ville. It was a large room filled with two rows of desks separated by a wide aisle. All the desks were being used, but only a few were occupied that morning, mostly by journalists. They perched on the edges of their swivel chairs and concentrated on the typewriters in front of them, poking one key at a time. Their desks were littered with overflowing ashtrays, notebooks, scribbled notes, and cups of cold coffee. The only neat desks to be found belonged to two female typists, aliens in this all-male realm, who had been planted across the aisle from each other at the front of the room near the inner offices. They hunched over their typewriters, their fingers flying over the keys, making a mockery of the feeble efforts of their colleagues.
Gabriel had been waiting for well over an hour on the bench outside Taillon’s office. He had come that morning to try to sell three stories to his former editor in the hopes that he would be assigned at least one. The printer, a stocky man in an ink-stained apron, had just left. A reporter that Gabriel didn’t recognize was called in. Gabriel had seen two reporters, a typesetter, and a secretary go in during the long while he had been kept waiting. A couple of them had been friends of sorts and asked how he was doing. In each case he told them that he was doing fine, that he had more work than he could handle, and that he had come by just to lend a hand.
Martin Taillon, the managing editor of Le Matin, liked to brag that he gave his reporters three mistakes. Gabriel’s first mistake came when he failed to interview the flatmate of a grisette named Flora Bourget who turned up floating in the river. Le Figaro had gotten to the flatmate and she had led the reporter to the victim’s boyfriend. The story had run on page two for three days.
His second mistake came when he falsely reported that one of the councilors in the 8th had been taking bribes. It turned out his source wanted the man’s job. The paper ran a retraction. Even so, there was a lawsuit. The third and fatal mistake came when Le Petit Journal beat him to the story about mediums and their connection to the scientific community. The morning the story ran Martin Taillon called Gabriel into his office and gave him the sack. No explanation was needed. The meeting took less than two minutes.
That was more than six months ago, and ever since he had been looking for the story that Taillon could not refuse. It had to be big enough to put Gabriel back at his desk, which was currently being occupied by his replacement, a fat little toad from L’Écho. He knew it was out there. Once or twice he thought he had it, only to have the story evaporate when his source disappeared.
Taillon finally came to the door and waved him in. “What is it this time,” he asked, puffing on a stub of a cigar to get it going. He was a rumpled man, once fit, now going to seed, who perpetually smelled of cigars. He usually had a smoking stub stuck between his teeth and liked to flick the ashes in the most unlikely places: coffee cups, envelopes, drawers, plants, and pockets.
Taillon’s personality was an unnerving mixture of self-assurance and impatience. He was precise and curious, a swashbuckler when it came to uncovering stories. His insight led him unfailingly to the ones that would sell papers. Yet, when it came to his staff, he was wholly unaware of how his frequent outbursts affected them. Gabriel knew he didn’t have much time before he would be asked to remove himself from the building. Taillon had little patience with reporters of the third republic, as he liked to call them, those who had earned his ostracism.
“I have a widow from the mine disaster,” Gabriel said, leading with his best.
“I have three. What else do you have?”
“They have new evidence that will clear Coste.”
“Wrong. We checked it out. He’s going to hang. Next.”
Gabriel had little faith in his last story. He knew what it would take to impress Taillon and this wasn’t it. He took a breath. “Cambodian dancers at the Élysées.” He pretended he didn’t see Taillon’s withering look. “A troop of young girls in a strange country, photographs of them in their exotic costumes, but they’re homesick, just like little girls everywhere.”
Taillon crushed out the spent stub of his cigar in a plate that had once held breakfast. “Richet, why don’t you go out there and find me a story I don’t have. Something new, something sensational, something that will make me regret I fired you. Right now I’m thinking it was the best decision I ever made.”
Gabriel tried a few other papers that day: Le Temps, L’Echo, and Gil Blas. The editor at Le Petit Journal asked him if he could get one of his reporters an interview with Eusapia Palladino. “You know her, right? How about that girl, the companion. Can you get us in?”
For the rest of the afternoon Gabriel wandered the streets, not really having a destination. When it grew too cold and wet to stay out he returned to his flat, keeping his overcoat on because he couldn’t afford the gas to heat it. He had saved some food from a family dinner the night before. His father had caught him in the kitchen with the cook, who was making him a package of leftovers.
“So, it has come to this?” his father asked, his lips curling in disgust.
Gabriel left without the package. He told the cook he didn’t want it. But she ran after him and forced it into his hand. “You are not going hungry, mon petit. I have known you since you were a little piggy and I will not let you
starve.”
He laughed and assured her that he was not starving. He didn’t tell her that it was because Charles was sending him money every month. He would never admit it to her. He barely admitted it to himself.
“All right, Zélie, I’ll take it.”
“Things will turn around for you,” the kindly old woman said. “They always do.” She gave him a hug. “I put your father’s best in there,” she whispered. “To keep you warm.”
His father’s best was gone by morning, the empty bottle on its side beside the bed, spilling its last drops on the sullen wooden planks. The food was still good though. He decided to save it for later. If he ate it now, he would have nothing for supper, and there was always a chance he would meet a friend who would buy him a bun or a cup of coffee.
When he came back that afternoon he checked his mailbox, hoping the money from his brother had arrived. He wanted to buy another bottle, and he had only a few sous left. The box was empty. So he went upstairs, ate the contents of Zélie’s package, and then went back down to the corner to spend his last sou on a shot of indifferent whiskey.
He chose a table by the window, ordered, and waited for it to arrive. A few minutes later the man at the next table rose, threw down a few coins, and sauntered out, leaving his newspaper behind. Gabriel pocketed the few coins and snatched the paper. The man must’ve realized his mistake for he was back moments later looking for it, but by then the paper already belonged to Gabriel, at least in his mind. He shook his head when the man asked about it, saying he hadn’t seen it.
He sipped the whiskey and read about the Courrières mine disaster. He was feeling a little better, warm and relaxed, and thinking about how he was going to raise the funds for another bottle when he turned the page and saw a picture of his brother standing with Pierre Curie, William Crookes, and Palladino in front of the Society of Psychology. The article was about the experiments that Charles and his colleagues were conducting on Eusapia Palladino’s psychic powers. Words like astounding, mysterious, and revelatory were sprinkled throughout the piece.
If You Are There Page 24