The Nightcharmer and Other Tales

by Claude Seignolle

  Quietly twirling his white moustache, which looked like a carnation under his nose, he would closely listen to the sounds of your breathing. Then he would sniff the sweat on your brow and finally poke his hand under your shirt, where the congestion was burning you. "You in pain?" he would ask, slightly wary. That's when you had to lie. You had to hide the pain, even if it showed itself in your eyes. For as he grew older Glaude was less and less willing to "sleep" pains. Long ago he had cured burning colics, because then his bowels were like the copper pipes of a still, able to turn fire into water. But as time went on he had put up so much resistance against the shocks of so many ailments that parts of his body had grown weaker. His bones were no longer encased in iron. The hard leather of his joints had worn off, and alcohol no longer ran in his veins instead of blood.

  By now he would look at you suspiciously and ask, "You hurtin', I mean hurtin' real bad?" That would compel you to lie in order to reassure him. And so you would reply with something like, "It's not the pain so much, but it kind of bothers me when I raise my arms." And old Glaude would believe you, though he was never completely fooled; he was just hoping for not too big a lie. Besides, one or two more pneumonias could hardly do any damage to his lungs, since they were still roaring like two beehives. Then he would ask you for exactly three gold coins, which you had to give him without haggling. That was part of the treatment. "The Church makes you pay for a miracle... so why shouldn't I?" he would say as a comfort to his clients. However, if in church it was easy to cheat with an apparent generosity, promising gold while actually slipping pennies into the anonymity of an almsbox, it was impossible to fool Glaude with copper coins, for his hands knew the difference quite well. Once you had given him the money you were already cured, and your torments would be transferred to him.

  Old Glaude's treatment was always successful and speedy. He would notify his wife to leave him alone on his bed. Each time she would loudly protest and cry out, shaking the wrinkles of her neck, which dangled like a turkey wattle. But then he would remind her of his warts, and showing the back of his fingers, which were full of them, he would maliciously pretend to give them all back to her. The threat worked every time.

  His wife would give in, remembering with gratitude Glaude's promptness in "sleeping" them away - the day she nearly lost her job at the diner the owner's wife feeling taint at the mere sight of dirty fingernails. Glaude had transferred them onto himself in thirty- six hours of uninterrupted sleep. And so his wife would sigh with resignation, thinking of the time she would spend alone while her husband slept for days. Who knows? It could even take a week, like the time he had "slept" away the malignant fever of the pharmacist's younger daughter. After that experience Glaude had sworn never to invite that kind of disease into him again: it had cost him twenty pounds of good fat.

  If the miseries that afflicted others still continued to graft themselves onto him, as he soothed and digested them with the power of his body, it was evident that as he grew older they stayed with him longer and longer. Like his wife's warts, Gravier's arthritis was still in Glaude's body, grinding his bones. Sometimes this ingrate would even make fun of Glaude, ironically asking news of "his" twinges. But Glaude would scare the teaser, pretending to give him back his pains, right then and there.

  One evening a man from Chicrolles, the nearby village, came to see Glaude at the bar, where he was enthusiastically engaged in a game of dominoes. The man managed to take him outside and described his ailment, stammering so much that the gardener had to make him repeat his story several times. It looked as though his prospective patient wasn't quite right in the head. Now old Glaude was willing to "sleep" back pains and heartburns, but mental problems were definitely out of the question. Just as he would never accept to " sleep" a potentially fatal disease.

  After all, how would he ever get rid of it?

  The stranger was a fidgety, skinny character with feverish eyes. His face was not a pleasant sight to see, and his fearful looks only added to the aura of sickness he radiated. The gardener began to wonder if he'd had a drink or two too many and was seeing things. However, reassured as the man managed to compose himself, he figured the stranger was probably only scared that somebody might try to explain some of his absences from home. Glaude was now satisfied that the man wasn't crazy but was only panicking, probably terrorized by a shrew of a wife. Knowing that he was himself quite level-headed about such tilings, and seeing this man literally out of his senses, the healer sympathetically agreed to help him. All this trifling nervousness was going to be "slept" in a few hours. Afterwards, it would be nothing more than a memory.

  The stranger left without even giving his name, but he turned out to be quite generous, putting a handful of gold coins in the gardener's hand. There were so many that Glaude had to run after him to give them back. He would keep only three coins. More than that was of no use for this cure, which wasn't even worth that much.

  That night Glaude went to sleep early to take upon himself the stranger's ailment. But this time he was troubled as never before. Usually he would "doze off a muscle ache and feel a pull on his joints. Or if he had agreed to cure a high fever, he would shiver in a cold sweat; a good pneumonia would smoulder like fire in his lungs. This time, however, he felt no pain at all. Instead something much worse happened: he was invaded with desires that would make the Devil himself blush. He was eyeing little girls as they left from school, and he felt overwhelmed with itches in his groin... Soon he was following the prettiest one, hiding from her with all the ruse of desire. He jumped on her as she walked by the thick woods. He dragged her by her blouse and it tore open, revealing the white skin of her back, which almost made him faint with excitement. He tried to kiss her, but the young girl resisted. She screamed and rolled with him on the ferns. Her skirt lifted, uncovering the top of her thighs. Instead of being afraid of getting caught Glaude felt his desire grow in him as he tore off the girl's clothes, throwing himself upon this struggling body that could do nothing against his crazed strength... He crushed her under his weight... She scratched his face but it didn't hurt him at all, it only added to his pleasure... But she went on screaming louder and louder, so much so that to force her to quiet down, he grabbed her throat and strangled her like a chicken.

  And he dreamed it all again, endlessly consummating the rape and starting it all over with another girl. He tossed in his bed, moaning with such desire that his wife became alarmed by the flow of obscenities that he was shouting. She finally dared enter the bedroom and tried to awaken him from his torments; but if she hadn't backed off just in time, he would have dragged her onto his bed.

  When he awoke Glaude realized that he had accepted a Satanic proposition, and he was wise enough to decide to break it off despite the bestial pleasure he had just experienced. A long time ago, while "sleeping" a hatred he had taken to be just a mild anger, he had gotten up in his sleep, loaded his shotgun, and left his house to go and kill the mayor, who was actually the prey of his patient. Without the winter cold that clutched him in his nightgown and woke him in the garden, Glaude would have become an assassin. Fortunately, he had been able to break the arrangement by immediately returning the three gold coins that had sealed the deal. His patient was not at home, but Glaude had left the money in an obvious spot, on a white sheet of paper on the kitchen table. Returning to his house and seeing the gold coins, his patient had wondered whether they had fallen out of the sky. He had touched them with the tips of his fingers, and that had been enough to cancel the deal and allow his haired to go back into him.

  This time, too, Glaude would have to act fast and in the same manner with the stranger.

  His legs still numb with sleep and his senses slightly dulled, Glaude took the road to Chicrolles to find the stranger and call off the deal. He looked for him everywhere, not daring to ask anyone. He searched all the shops and bars with a surprising boldness, for ordinarily he never bothered people in the slightest. All the streets and alleys saw him walk by at least two or
three times. So did the fields, tor the stranger was not easy to find. And every time Glaude passed by the high school, even going back there on purpose, he would slow down and listen. Now he would have really liked to hear the girls sing, whereas before he had always been annoyed by the schoolgirls of Coulondelles. But this studious silence worried him, making him fear that perhaps they had already left... When suddenly the doors opened, as the teachers let the whole flock out for recess. And he saw them, fresh and playful, shouting and running after each other, teasing the boys or quietly talking to each other.

  Glaude was struck by such a shower of desire that he felt dizzy and had to grab the iron gate with both hands, looking like a man drunk on a gallon of cheap wine. But then, feeling guilty and scared that one of the young girls might recognize him, he rushed to hide behind one of the basswood trees on the square, where he continued eyeing the one he had already chosen. He had to admit it was only gossip to say that people were thin-blooded in Chiciolles. Here the girls were full of life... But after all, what did he care about these, since he could have others at Coulondelles, as many as he desired... Yet Glaude managed to shake off this tormenting obsession and was ashamed to find himself bunting alive with these lewd thoughts. For though they were not his own, they were gradually creeping up on him. Finally he made up his mind and walked inside the city hall to inquire at the reception desk. The employee was at first pleasant, but a funny look crossed his face when Glaude described the stranger to him.

  "You wouldn't be looking for Louis, by any chance?" he asked in a disgusted tone of voice.

  "I'm telling you," repeated the gardener, "I don't know his name, otherwise I wouldn't be here asking you. All I know is that he wears a dirty beige corduroy jacket."

  The clerk looked at Glaude suspiciously and replied, "That is Louis for sure, what do you want with him?"

  "I want to give him back some cash he loaned me," answered Glaude.

  "In that case, you're that much richer," said the clerk, trying to muster a smile.

  "Damn it, man, why?" shouted Glaude, feeling more and more uneasy in front of this man.

  "Because," the clerk bluntly replied as he grabbed his throat with his hands, "because that son of a bitch hanged himself yesterday after raping Lucette Richard, and he's probably the one who strangled Lander's daughter a month ago. You can bet he would have raped others if guilt hadn't put a rope around his neck."

  Suddenly understanding that the stranger's vice was in his groin forever, and that he had no more rival in this vicious hunt, the gardener dropped into a chair. And in front of the stupefied clerk, he started to cry hysterically at his newfound potency.

  Starfish

  She arrived alone, driving a luxurious limousine. The caretaker had been impatiently awaiting her, standing in the gray haze of this December dusk. The winter wind was howling angrily at this small village by the sea, a town now deserted and abandoned, the way a resort looks in the off-season. She rolled down the window and told him her name. Her voice was gentle and pleasant, but he heard it edged with silent sorrow; she apologized for being late. Troubled and reluctantly friendly, the caretaker answered that waiting was part of his job; he was used to it and didn't mind at all. He hastened to open the car door, but as he saw her stepping out, his impatience turned into apprehensiveness.

  She wore dark suede boots and was wrapped in a rich fur coat whose hood covered her head. Her face was almost entirely hidden behind a black shawl, and her eyes, compulsively staring into the distance, were the only features that could be seen. The caretaker tried to look as natural as possible. He knew that the people who rented this gigantic villa in the winter wished to be left alone, as if they were hiding a suspicious need for isolation. Yet he sensed that somehow this woman had to have worse reasons than all the others. She had brought only an expensive leather suitcase, but as he picked it up it felt empty, and that added another measure of distrust to his already suspicious disposition.

  In the hall he flicked on the light, but a sudden short circuit finished off the brief glow of the chandelier. He cursed in the dark, found his lighter, and went groping down to the basement. But it was useless. The lights would not come back on; the lingering humidity of the house had once more defeated the fuse box.

  "I'll have to call the electrician," he grumbled as he walked back upstairs. Despite its temporary annoyance, the blackout had given him a welcome opportunity to leave the woman for a moment. And though the basement was dark and damp, he found it more cheerful than the invading silence of the stranger. Lighting a candle, he rushed through the showing of the first floor, even though it had always been his pleasure to initiate the newcomers to the splendour of more than a dozen rooms. He took her suitcase and climbed the stairs leading to the master bedroom. The stranger followed him, seemingly distant in her halo of despair, but still much too close for his comfort.

  He opened the door and came into the room, which was basking in the glow of a sleepy hearth. He quickly revived the fire, prodding it with a poker. The embers crackled and came back to life as he covered them with new logs. Left to their hunger the flames rose and snorted at the cinders, projecting around the room the anger of their stirred-up brightness. "The fire will give you some light for the time being... The bed is made... If you need another blanket..." the caretaker went on, trying his best to fend off the growing uneasiness that the woman radiated. He felt as though she were one of those frighteningly beautiful and exotic flowers that emanate a beguiling and deceitful scent, the better to paralyse those who would dare approach her. So he half-heartedly praised the excitement that animated the house in the summertime. "It's a house for young people... You should see it during the holidays... Hear the children laugh and play... And all the disguises... and the Carnival of course... This place don't like winters... It sure don't!"

  Meanwhile, the stranger had sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the flames. Was she listening to him at all? He sensed that she was not. He placed a candle on the table and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  The woman's shadow suddenly arched on the wall. She gave way to a gentle sobbing while her fingers brushed her bandaged face, in the manner of someone who would hesitate to caress somebody else's face. She slowly followed her chin line, lingered on her cheeks, and avoided touching her nose and ears, as though they were fragile. Ever since she had left the hospital, after a dreadful car accident, she felt as if she had been wearing a hideous mask, a living veil molded with uneven strips of grafted flesh taken from her body and pieced, welded together, to allow her new face to be born. "They told me my features would live again... They swore I would look just like before .. .just like before!" The haunting litany resounded in her head. She got up, went to the window, and opened it. The wind rushed in and started to peel off the small and thin pages of a calendar that had been left on the wall a few months before. And now the wind was catching up with time, ready to erase the entire span of a human life, were it only given the chance.

  "They have frozen my lips... Sewn my cheeks and my nose... I can feel it... They have turned me into living death. Forced me to run away from myself... To run away in vain from this other face that will soon be mine!" But there she was, alone and yet so crowded in this room, she, the famous actress, the embodiment of the most exquisite charms; the sun of millions of fans who, at this very moment all around the world, were enraptured by the grace of her body and infatuated with the incomparable beauty of her face. She had come to hide here, in this desolate place, with her new unknown self, plastered inseparably onto her flesh. And it would be a month at least before she could see her new face. One month! Time for hope, enough time to get used to the worst.

  But she could wait no longer. Despite the stem warnings of her plastic surgeon, she wanted to know right then and there. She had already made up her mind on her way to the villa. Now she was away from the doctors, away from their pleas for patience, away from it all! Now she was ready for the test of truth. She stood up
and looked for a mirror.

  She immediately found one, as though it had been waiting for her: a small mirror framed in the upper panel of an old door. Blown by a draft the flames of the fireplace were lighting it, alternating shadows with reflections. It was just what she needed. She threw her heavy fur coat on the bed and came to the mirror. Taking the shawl off her white bandages, she revealed her third and temporary face: a helmet made of cotton, slit only by one hostile opening, which was her only tie with the outside world.

  And then slowly unrolling the gauze, she began to free herself, at the risk of suffering even more. Her courage gave way when only a few strips remained. She stopped, closed her eyes as tightly as she clenched her fists, and started to bang on the mirror, on this cynical device impassively waiting to destroy her. She hit it enough to break it, but the glass held on. She did not have to unroll the rest of the bandages; they fell off by themselves, leaving her with the sensation of a nakedness she had never experienced before. Finally, she opened her eyes and saw herself.

  Rather, she saw what they had done to her: a face made of sewed-up patches of discoloured flesh, unevenly melted together, furrowed with deep wrinkles; a monstrous truth at which she was now staring in a daze, as if this grotesque spectacle had been the highest achievement of her acting career... An opaque veil of despair fell before her eyes. She turned away from the mirror, opened the door, and left the house. She walked across the loneliness of the deserted beach until her feet felt the cold caress of the sea. She gazed at the raging water and determined to make it her grave; she walked on toward the chilling embrace of the deep. It did not even frighten her. As a young girl she had almost drowned in a boating accident. And today, she felt as if she had finally returned to satisfy the frustrated hunger of the waves.