by James Welch
Charging Elk had heard somebody whisper his name, but when he looked around he saw only strangers. Some of them had been looking at him, especially those in the balcony as though he were some sort of wild animal on display, like the big cats and wolves in the Wild West show. For the first time in a long time, he was annoyed by this prurience and wanted to show them his teeth, but the one who spoke for him had told him it was important to act the gentleman. So he ignored them and focused his attention on the bad-mouthed one and the jurymen who watched him. And his heart grew heavy to think that these people did not understand the ways of the siyokos and the necessity to kill them.
He understood from his advocate that the situation did not look good, that perhaps the most the advocate could do would be to save him from the guillotine. Even that would be a great triumph. But if he could show that Charging Elk had been a good citizen up to this event, perhaps the court would show mercy. He wanted the names of all the people who knew Charging Elk, every one of them, friend or enemy; he would sort them out. And so Charging Elk gave him the names of all who had been friendly toward him—the Soulas family, Brown Suit, Yellow Breast, his bosses at the soap factory, Monsieur Billedoux and Madame Braque, the little fat man at Le Salon, Olivier. Then, after a few moments of thought, he included Marie.
But the advocate had said she was already coming to the stand “in another capacity.” Charging Elk had not understood this language and was pleased that he would be able to see her again, even if only from a distance. In fact, the thought that he would be able to look at her and that she might look at him was what had sustained him the past three weeks. He had been questioned repeatedly the previous two and a half weeks by the special magistrate, who seemed to want him to say that he had killed the good chef with a cold heart, as a country butcher cuts the neck of a lamb and throws it into the brambles to bleed out. And he wouldn’t listen to the simple explanation that Charging Elk did it for all of the people, including the special magistrate. It was his obligation.
Now Charging Elk glanced around the courtroom, the prosecutor’s words just a meaningless recitation in his ears. It occurred to him that Marie might be here now—perhaps in the balcony, perhaps seated at one of the tables beneath the balcony. There were a few women there, but none of them was Marie. Of course he couldn’t see into the balcony just over his head, but he imagined that she might be there. And it occurred to him that he had never seen her in going-out clothes, and the idea of her in a long, perhaps satiny dress and a beautiful hat made of feathers excited him almost visibly. He leaned forward to get a better look at the tables beneath the balcony, but they were filled with men, all of them writing in little notebooks. But there at the front right-hand corner of the long table in the middle sat Yellow Breast, head down, pencil moving furiously across and down the page.
Charging Elk had seen him only once more after that initial meeting. He brought cigarettes, candy, and greetings from Réne and Madeleine. He also brought a copy of the article he had written about Charging Elk. He had been excited about the reaction the article had brought, but when Charging Elk simply looked at it, he paused. “You can’t read,” he said. Then he told Charging Elk what it said, leaving out some parts that he thought might upset the indien. He said that many people were angry that an innocent savage could be seduced by a voracious predator like Breteuil. They were even angrier that the justice system could not see that the crime had actually been committed by the perverted chef. Many of the comments on the street included the declaration “I would have done the same thing myself.”
But that had been four or five weeks ago and Charging Elk had heard nothing since; nor had he seen Yellow Breast again until now. He had begun to think that the journalist had forgotten all about him—after all, Marseille was a big town and there were many things for a journalist to write about. So when Yellow Breast, during a pause while the prosecutor drank a glass of water, glanced up and winked, the indien smiled. He had not seen a friendly face other than Yellow Breast’s since before the incident in Le Salon. He was suddenly filled with hope that Yellow Breast could make these citizens see the truth of what he had done.
During the next nine days of trial, excepting the weekend, many witnesses were brought to the stand to testify. The prosecutor’s witnesses were mostly officials—gendarmes, including the one who had arrested him the first time in front of the Basilique St-Victor for vagabondage; a doctor who affirmed that he had left the hospital without being discharged; another doctor who claimed that Charging Elk did not have the mental capacity to understand the rules of a civilized society; yet another doctor whose specialty was phrenology and who stated that in the scientific community it was common knowledge that savages’ brains were smaller on average and therefore less developed, less capable of making sound decisions; and a government official who testified that the defendant had no legal status in the Republic, that he was in fact an illegal immigrant who should have been deported long ago but had somehow fallen through the cracks of the immigration service.
Finally, the prosecutor called his last witness. And Charging Elk was beside himself with joy. He watched, his bottom barely touching the chair, as Marie walked with her eyes down to the witness stand. She was not only alive but she was flesh and blood—the same sturdy body, the clean, round face that he had looked into so often. But she was different. She was wearing a dress—a long, gray dress, not silky but crisp and neat. And a gray straw hat with her hair tucked underneath. As she walked up the aisle, he could hear the swish of her dress, of the things under it, and he was awed by this new Marie.
The advocate, in preparing his case, had questioned Charging Elk again and again about his relationship with Marie and what had taken place between them on the night in question. What was she like that night? Happy? Angry? Aloof? Secretive? Had he seen her pour a powder or liquid into his wine? Did they have any sexual contact? Did he see her talking with the chef before he passed out? Charging Elk had resented these questions because they made her look as if she was in league with the siyoko. In fact, he was surprised to find himself feeling a twinge of jealousy at such a thought. But he had recovered and told the advocate that he didn’t want to talk about her anymore. He never told the advocate that he had asked her to come live with him, to marry him. After his long days and nights in his cell, he had come to feel embarrassed that he might have thought he had such a chance for happiness.
And now here she was, standing in the small enclosure, swearing to God that she would be truthful. Her hands, small but square in black net gloves, held the railing tightly, as if she would collapse without its support. And when the prosecutor asked the first question, she answered in the small, reluctant voice that Charging Elk knew so well. And although he had to lean forward and listen with great intensity, he understood most of what she said, including the fact that she was still working at Le Salon.
The prosecutor spent most of his time asking her about her relationship with the defendant. When did she first meet him? How often did he come to Le Salon? Would they always have sex? Was he an abusive lover? Did he demand of her acts that were beyond the bounds of propriety? Finally he questioned her about that night. Where was she during the time the two men were together in her room? And finally, what did she find upon returning to her room?
Marie almost collapsed at this last question, swaying, leaning on the railing for support, and sobbing as the sight of the slain man came back to her. At the prosecutor’s gentle prodding, she described, between sobs, the thin, naked body still hunched over the edge of the bed, the dark stain on the bedspread, the blood which was still dripping from his wounds on the floor, the smell which almost made her faint and did make her vomit.
When the prosecutor thanked her in a soft voice and walked back to his desk, the whole courtroom was deathly quiet. Even Charging Elk held his breath as he listened to Marie s diminishing sobs and remembered the room that night. He had understood enough to remember washing his groin and thighs at the washstand, tuck
ing the blood-spattered shirt into his trousers, spying the spectacles on the small table beside the bed, and leaving the room with a curiously mixed feeling of fear and triumph. And the smell of blood, as vivid in his nostrils now as it had been that night. But now he felt the horror that had haunted him since—the horror of imagining Marie opening her door and taking in the carnage. As he watched her on the stand, head down, still sobbing into a handkerchief, he knew that the horror that had visited him again and again had been only too accurate.
The president of the tribunal, the chief magistrate, gave Marie a few moments to collect herself; then he asked the defendant s advocate to proceed. The advocate stood but did not leave his desk, some six or seven meters from the witness stand. He was a cadaverous man whose white bib was a couple of sizes too big for his neck and whose robe hung from his shoulders like a shroud. A pair of spectacles perched above a curving nose that seemed almost a caricature of a hawk s beak. He studied his notes for a short time, then asked in a surprisingly loud voice, “Had you met the deceased, Armand Breteuil, before the night of May 17th, Mademoiselle Colet?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Excuse me?”
“No,” she said, a little louder this time.
“Are you certain about that?” The advocate’s voice rose to a quizzical pitch, with just a note of sarcasm, as he glanced at the jurors.
“Yes, monsieur.”
The advocate looked down at his notes, pretending to study them. “Well, we’ll come back to this issue, mademoiselle. But let me proceed. Had you ever seen him before the night of May 17th?”
“No. Yes. Once in a while.”
“And what were the circumstances of these occasional sightings?”
“He came into Le Salon sometimes.”
“Ah. To visit the girls, no doubt.”
Marie looked up at the advocate for the first time, a puzzled look on her face.
“He came to enjoy the fruits of young womanhood—is that not correct, mademoiselle?”
“No. He always went into the back parlor.”
“I don’t understand,” the advocate said, staring at the jury.
“That’s where the boys are.”
“The boys? Again, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Marie glanced up at the advocate, but he was looking at the group of men in the long box. “He came to visit the boys,” she said.
“You mean, to have sex with the boys?”
“Just one. Just the Spaniard—Miguel.” Marie was surprised to hear rustling and murmuring in the balcony. She looked up and saw the several spectators—some fanning themselves with heavy paper fans, others with hats, still others mopping their faces against the stuffy heat—and saw that all were looking at her, all silent now, expectant. She began to feel faint again and rocked unsteadily against the balustrade.
“So he was a practicing homosexual, would you say mademoiselle?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Thank you.” He came out from behind the desk and stood between it and the jury box, tapping his spectacles against his thumbnail. He seemed lost in thought, and Marie could hear the tap, tap, tap clearly in the hushed room. She glanced quickly at the magistrates, who were seated less than two meters above her and to the side. They too were watching the advocate, perhaps a little disdainfully, perhaps impatiently.
“We must come back to my first question, Mademoiselle Colet. And I feel I must inform you that you have sworn an oath to God that you would be truthful in your testimony. You do understand that you have an obligation to be truthful and that the consequences of perjury are quite grave, do you not?”
“Yes, monsieur,” she said in a small, wary voice.
“Good. Now then—had you met Armand Breteuil before the night of the incident in question?”
Marie did something then that she had sworn to herself that she would not do—she glanced over to the prisoner’s dock. She glanced at Charging Elk and saw that he was watching her in a way that seemed curiously detached from the proceedings. She felt his eyes encompass her in a way that seemed too intimate for the time and place. She had seen that look only in her small room and she had felt a stirring then that seemed to lift her out of her drab, unhappy nights in Le Salon.
“The witness will answer the advocate’s question,” came a voice from above.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“And when did this meeting take place?”
“Three, four days before ...”
“And what was the nature of this meeting?”
“Pardon?”
“What did you and the deceased talk about?”
Marie felt sick and faint. She shouldn’t have looked at him. It made it all too difficult. “Please, monsieur,” she said. “Have pity.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“But I can’t...” And with that, she buried her face in her hands and cried.
The chief magistrate called for silence, then said, “Perhaps the mademoiselle would like a short break.”
Marie actually looked up at the magistrates, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. She felt grateful for this small kindness, but as she looked at them, she knew that there was no chance to put an end to this cruelty. She looked back at the advocate, who was leaning against his desk, wiping his spectacles on the corner of his black robe. No, there was no way out but to answer his questions truly. Only then would they stop.
“He wanted me to . . .”
“Breteuil.”
“He wanted me to arrange a meeting with François.”
“François?”
“Charging Elk.” Marie could barely say the name. She had learned it only when the journalist came to see her in the Prefecture five weeks before. She remembered feeling a little angry then at the big man’s deception, but now she felt only a desire to finish her story and get away from the voracious eyes in the balcony.
“A meeting! To what purpose?”
“He wanted to have sex with . . . with Charging Elk.” It was peculiar how saying the strange name made their relationship seem distant and impersonal. She was glad he was not François anymore.
“I see. And did the defendant”—he waved his hand toward the prisoner’s dock—”also desire sex with the deceased?”
“He didn’t know . . . no.”
“Then how in the world could Monsieur Breteuil have sex with an unwilling partner, a man who didn’t even know him?”
Marie looked down at her gloved hands and remembered how heavy and awkward she had felt with the beautiful man. Even now, in the august chamber with the magistrates and the other officials finely dressed in their red robes and black robes, she felt more like the farm girl from the Vaucluse than a whore in the big port city. At the same time, she felt a sort of serenity that comes from being emotionally drained.
“He gave me some powder that would put François—Charging Elk—to sleep. I was to put it in the wine ...”
Once again she heard a commotion from the balcony—even a few whistles of derision—but she didn’t look up. They were not important.
The advocate, looking at the jurymen, said, “In essence, you drugged the defendant, Monsieur Charging Elk, so that Breteuil could have sex with him. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And were you paid for this—this favor?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Twenty francs.” Marie looked at the jury for the first time. “But I didn’t want it. I wanted nothing to do with it, as God is my witness. He threatened—”
“That will be enough, mademoiselle.” The sharp voice of the chief magistrate startled Marie. “We do not tolerate such outbursts in this courtroom. As for God, you may have cause to invoke his forgiveness whenever you think upon your part in this.”
“If it pleases the court, I will conclude my interview with just a couple of questions.” The advocate glanced down at a piece of paper an assistant offered. “So you and the deceased plot
ted to drug Monsieur Charging Elk, who, I might add, was completely innocent of your scheme, as he is innocent of most things in our so-called civilized society. But did you actually see the fruits of your labor—for which you were paid the grand sum of twenty francs—the sex act being performed by the deviant?”
With an abrupt scraping of his chair, the procureur stood. “I must object to this inflammatory term, your honors. While we all, as God-fearing men, frown upon the nature of the homosexual act, in some quarters, indeed in the deceased s milieu, it is considered quite normal. Much like the young lady’s chosen profession.” He smiled toward the jury, his ruddy face now genial with camaraderie. “Besides which, I believe my worthy but desperate friend is trying to shift the onus of responsibility for this remarkably heinous crime away from his client.”
The chief magistrate agreed that the prosecutor s objection was justified and warned the advocate against any like insinuations. He ordered that the advocate s last remark be deleted from the record.
“Forgive me, your honors,” the advocate said with a slight bow and a slight smile. “Just one more question, if it pleases the court.” He left his desk and walked toward the witness stand, removing his spectacles along the way. He glanced up at the magistrates, as if expecting them to stop him from invading this neutral space. Finally, he stopped little more than a meter from the witness stand and folded his arms. He turned slowly, deliberately, three-quarters of a turn to his left, until he was looking toward the prisoner’s dock. “Take a good look, Mademoiselle Colet. That is the man accused of the murder of Monsieur Armand Breteuil. Even now, he understands imperfectly the nature of these proceedings. See how he looks at you? I would wager all of my meager salary that he is remembering the many Saturday nights he came to see you, exclusively you, because he found in you someone he could trust—and yes, in his own way, love.” He turned back and looked into her eyes. “Can you find it in your heart to say that this man is guilty of anything more than defending himself from an assault on his dignity and pride? Can you say you feel nothing for this man? Surely you must regret your complicity in the wicked act perpetrated by the pervert Breteuil—”