Spectacle

by Jodie Lynn Zdrok

  She hated lying to Maman, making excuses, telling her half-truths. She was bothered by the lies told and lies she prepared to tell; since the visions started, she’d chosen practicality over truth. The feeling of dishonesty sickened her.

  Every day added another block of iron to the weight of this power. The luster of excitement was dulling, little by little.

  Nathalie watched her mother, her scarred hands holding the fork awkwardly, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth that had grown more pronounced this summer. And while Maman complained that Nathalie was too thin, her own dresses hung more loosely these days. Her focus seemed to be understandably inward lately.

  So there they sat, few words between them, each with her own set of worries.

  She couldn’t stop thinking of M. Gloves. It irked her that Simone had dismissed her suspicions. They were valid, and she didn’t understand why Simone disagreed. That fingertip-tapping, whistling man. Were his eyes the ones through which she’d seen My pretty Mirabelle? Had she sensed his presence while having the vision? Was that why she felt so strongly about him?

  Or maybe she’d made a mistake today about the white gloves in the vision. Perhaps she’d unconsciously seen M. Gloves on her way into the morgue. Her mind could have added that detail, the way Maman’s voice sometimes became part of a dream if she was waking Nathalie.

  No. She had to trust that the vision was real or else … or else she didn’t know what. She’d become insane, that’s what. She was under duress, but she wasn’t mad. Besides, everything had been proven right and real so far. This episode shouldn’t be any different.

  Nathalie hated the idea of speaking the murderer’s words during a vision. It made her feel unclean, intrusive. Too close to the mind of a killer.

  She stared at the dull, benign knife in her hand, hovering over the plate. A knife. For cutting food. Meat. The face and neck of a young woman.

  Her hand went limp and the knife fell, dropping onto the plate with a startling clang.

  Maman and Stanley jumped. Nathalie apologized for the noise and excused herself from the table to finish a few chores.

  Later that evening, when she reached in her bag for her journal, she pulled out a few papers and envelopes. She’d forgotten about her mail from Le Petit Journal. A charity, a reminder that the archive room was going to be reorganized, three advertisements. The last envelope was addressed to “Public Morgue Writer” like the advertising promotions, but had “A Fellow Writer” in the return address.

  She opened it as she walked over to the wastebasket. Ouch!

  The envelope sliced her finger. She licked the cut and unfolded the paper, ready to toss it in the trash, when her heart stopped like a painting, forever frozen in time.

  My Dear Scribe,

  Bravo on the columns. Nicely done, though you’re a bit shy with the descriptions of my work. Truly. Tell them about the sliced flesh, how it’s red, black, and purple, except where the rot has set in, where it’s of a brownish-green hue.

  Tell them how the knife went in so deep it cut the bone.

  Tell them how beautiful the girls once were, and how their delicate features have become grotesque death masks.

  Tell them.

  You would do well not to disappoint me.

  Yours,

  The Dark Artist

  15

  Nathalie practiced handing the letter to M. Patenaude a few times before leaving the apartment. At first she trembled during rehearsal, then she overcompensated by practically shoving it at the imaginary M. Patenaude.

  When she actually stood there, in his office, she gave it to him almost as nonchalantly as she’d hoped. The paper shook only the tiniest bit as she offered it to him.

  M. Patenaude took a long time to read it; clearly he reviewed it more than once. His glasses seemed thicker than usual today, and his expression was portrait-ready serious as he pursed his lips.

  He looked up from the letter and put his glasses on top of his head. The motion was jerky, reminding Nathalie of a marionette. His words spilled out like water from a knocked-over glass. “We get a lot of mail from impostors.”

  “How do you know the letters to ‘Paris’ from the Dark Artist are real?”

  He paused. Just a beat. Just long enough to make Nathalie wonder why.

  “We don’t know for certain,” he said. He took a cigarette out of a case on his desk and lit it. “Instinct plus an educated guess. If you stay in the newspaper business long enough, you know what feels right and what doesn’t.”

  On the one hand, she found his answer frustrating. That’s it? On the other, it made sense. Policemen relied in part on instinct, as did chefs, bakers, and even seamstresses. Maman often spoke of making a dress as much from feel as from measurement. Why not reporters?

  “Sometimes,” M. Patenaude added, exhaling some smoke, “it’s more art than science.”

  Nathalie peeked out the window. Building after building, boulevard after boulevard. Somewhere out there was a long hallway with a navy-and-gold runner and a room with a fancy table bloodied from a crushed temple and a killer who wore white gloves. “Do you think this letter is real?”

  He took his glasses off his head and rested them on a stack of papers. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

  Her skin prickled in response. “How do you know?”

  “I know truth when I see it, and this is truthful.” M. Patenaude opened his eyes and knocked some ash off his cigarette. “That being said, I need you to promise me something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t tell anyone about the letter.” M. Patenaude’s tone was flat.

  “Why?”

  He looked at Nathalie, away, and back at her again. He took a long drag from the cigarette and let it out in an O. “Because I said not to.” His words marched out like patient, dutiful soldiers.

  Nathalie’s tongue tripped onto the start of a protest. Not that she knew what she was disputing other than the restriction itself. And his manner of delivering it.

  “It’s too risky,” he added in haste, as if afraid he’d forget to say it. He cracked a smile that never reached his eyes. “You need to be safe. Do I have your word?”

  “I promise to keep it to myself.”

  “Good.” M. Patenaude tapped some ash into an ashtray. “I also think it … might be good if you took the rest of the week off. With pay. I’ll get Kirouac to cover for you through Sunday.”

  “Why?” Her voice showed more distress than intended. She’d considered telling him about M. Gloves but was glad she didn’t; if he knew she’d boarded a tram to follow a potential suspect, he might reassign her altogether. “I don’t want to lose this position, Monsieur Patenaude. I am committed to writing this column and writing it well.”

  “You won’t,” he said, holding up his hand. He puffed the cigarette and placed it on the edge of the ashtray. “You’re a model journalist-in-training, I assure you. This is only temporary.”

  Nathalie didn’t want time off, but she nodded anyway. M. Patenaude was Papa’s friend and was trying to protect her; he knew more than she did about these things.

  “If another one of these comes in,” M. Patenaude continued, picking up his glasses, “give it to me. I’ll turn this one over to the police. I’d prefer that you stay anonymous.”

  Again he had a point.

  “When I’m back on Monday, should I be more descriptive, like he said? It’s rather off-putting…”

  M. Patenaude dangled his glasses by the nosepiece. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think readers will devour it.”

  She leaned back. That wasn’t what she expected him to say. Or how she expected him to say it. She’d contemplated telling him about M. Gloves, to ask him his journalist-honed opinion. Now she decided against it.

  “Merci,” Nathalie said, looking down at her bag to tie it up. When she picked up her head, she caught M. Patenaude watching her in a way that was—well, she didn’t know what to make of it. Odd, but he was an odd man. Penetrat
ing, but he was evidently prone to such gazes. Curious, but he was a journalist, and journalists were inquisitive.

  Even so.

  It was only a flicker, but something about his expression told her he knew much more than he was saying.

  * * *

  The next morning Nathalie went to the morgue, just to see for her own self, and passed the time normally spent writing at the Louvre instead. For the next few days, she’d pretend nothing had changed.

  M. Patenaude’s instructions meant she’d have to do exactly that. True, she didn’t want to worry Maman anyway, yet the directive made her uneasy. More deception.

  She was getting tired of it all. The visions, the strain she felt afterward, having to hide her power, and now this threat from the Dark Artist. For what? She should be gazing at the ocean that separated France and England, not gazing through the glass that separated the living and the dead.

  Fortunately Maman was out with a seamstress friend when Nathalie returned for lunch. For today at least, she could avoid the discomfort of acting like she’d just returned from the newspaper. It was bad enough she’d left the house this morning in trousers to keep up appearances. The less she had to keep up the ruse, the better.

  Nathalie changed into her normal clothes and took lunch, a cold tomato soup with chèvre, downstairs to share with Simone and Céleste, as promised.

  “She’s asleep,” Simone whispered as she opened the door. Céleste was on the sofa, a miniature version of Simone but with dark brown eyes under those delicate eyelids. A wet washcloth was folded neatly across her forehead, and her face was flushed. “It’s worse this time. Every time she gets a fever, it takes longer to break. She’s had this one for three days. She’s complaining of stomach pains now, too.”

  Simone kissed Céleste on the head as they walked past. The little girl stirred, a look of pain flashing across her face. She opened her eyes long enough to say a sleepy hello to Nathalie before rolling to the side to rest again.

  “I—I didn’t know she was this sick,” said Nathalie. “I know you’ve said so, but to see her this way…”

  “Upsetting, isn’t it? This talkative little bunny, red-faced and unable to stay awake.” Simone shook her head. “No one knows what it is, only that she gets better and then it comes back.”

  “She’ll get better once and for all,” Nathalie said, because what Simone needed most was hope, not a reminder of the uncertainty.

  The two of them sat at the table, eating soup and talking in hushed tones, until Simone’s mother returned from the market. Mme. Marchand, fatigued but pleasant, was most thankful for the soup.

  A short while later, Nathalie and Simone rode the omnibus to the wax museum. Louis was so excited for Simone to see the newest tableaux that he’d gifted her with two tickets—one for her and one for Nathalie. He wanted, Simone said, for her to describe her impression to him rather than go with her. “He plans on writing a poem about our reactions,” Simone said in a whisper, as if anyone on the bus knew Louis or cared about his poetry.

  They followed four other people under the archway that had “Musée Grévin” written on it, presented their tickets, and entered the peculiar realm of wax figures.

  Nathalie and Simone moseyed through a room of historical figures, musicians, and dancers. Simone yawned as they approached a cabaret tableau.

  “Bored already?” teased Nathalie. “I thought the cabaret was never dull.”

  “It’s not that,” Simone said. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

  “I didn’t, either.” Nathalie swallowed back the strong desire to tell her about the letter from the Dark Artist.

  “Between Mirabelle and Monsieur Gloves and your aunt’s baptismal font story about the priest and nun…” Simone let go of the sentence and pushed up her sleeves. “I opened the curtains wide and let all the light from the streets pour into the room. Too many thoughts in my wild imagination.”

  Nathalie paused before responding. Something didn’t make sense.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” she began, drawing each word out with care. “I remember telling you the baptismal font story…” Dread tugged at her as she assembled the next sentence. “I don’t remember hearing it from Aunt Brigitte. How could I tell you a story that I don’t remember hearing?”

  Simone cocked her head. “It happened the other day. When you visited her without Maman.”

  Nathalie stared at Simone, trying to figure out if this was a joke. But her demeanor was solemn, almost grave, and there was no spirited twinkle in her eyes.

  “I remember being in the asylum,” Nathalie said, recalling the moment she walked through the entrance the other day. “I—I don’t recall that conversation with her.”

  Simone didn’t blink. She studied Nathalie’s face before speaking. “What do you remember?”

  “She was braiding her hair, and she talked about her roommates. She usually talks about her dreams. That day she didn’t because she had a nightmare and said it was too disturbing. Then—” Then what? A gap, like flipping ahead several pages in a book. The next thing she remembered was rushing home on the omnibus. She relayed all this to Simone, who filled in all the now-forgotten asylum details Nathalie had shared a couple days ago.

  Nathalie’s eyes fell on a wax version of Napoleon III. “I’ve been very forgetful lately. It wasn’t just buying the flowers and having no memory of it. I went on the roof one night to write to Agnès and write in my journal. I don’t remember coming back into my room afterward, but I woke up in my bed. I also don’t have the faintest idea what I wrote to Agnès, and when I read my journal later, it was unfamiliar. And now this.”

  Simone put her hands on Nathalie’s shoulders. “Something just occurred to me,” she said. She bit her lip before continuing. “Yesterday you told me about visiting Aunt Brigitte, but today you don’t recall most of the visit itself. You bought flowers for your mother while standing in line at the morgue—the same day you saw Odette—and afterward didn’t know how you got them. I wouldn’t be surprised if that memory gap on the roof happened right after you saw Victim Number Two.”

  The thoughts in Nathalie’s head slowed down. “They were all around the time I visited the morgue and had the visions. I thought it was—was just the strain of it all.”

  From there her mind sped up again. Too quickly.

  She felt cold from the inside out, and the words echoed in her head as they came out of her mouth: “So every time I have a vision, I lose a memory.”

  Simone took a step back, her body tense. “It—it has to be. Why didn’t we make this connection sooner?”

  “Maybe on some dark, deeply buried level I suspected it.” But couldn’t admit it to myself or anyone else. “I don’t know if I did or didn’t. I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “I mean, the only way to know is if it keeps happening,” said Simone, tucking a tress under her hat, “although I can’t think of another explanation.”

  If it keeps happening.

  If.

  “And,” Simone added, “maybe it’s only temporary. You might get those memories back after some time has passed. It’s possible.”

  “It’s also possible I won’t.” Her mind full of cutouts, like a string of paper dolls? She didn’t need that.

  Simone turned toward the tableaux. “Even so, is it really that disagreeable? Inconvenient, perhaps, but to forget that you’ve bought flowers isn’t that disruptive. Every other old man forgets that, I’ll bet.”

  “That’s rather dismissive.” As if Simone wanted the memory loss to be a minor detail worth overlooking. And now she had her back to Nathalie besides. “Especially when it isn’t happening to you.”

  “For the incredible ability to see things? I’d give up a few memories.”

  Nathalie’s ears got hot. This wasn’t some stage show. It was her mind.

  They moved to the next room behind a small crowd. As soon as Nathalie saw it, her limbs grew heavy. She couldn’t move. She felt like she’d turned from
girl to rooted tree.

  There, in horrifying detail, was a wax depiction of Victims #1 and #2, Odette and the forever unnamed second girl, on a slab at the morgue. They were just as she remembered, mangled macabre siblings on a slab. The scene also included the viewing pane and, on the other side of it, a small crowd of people gawking.

  “Can you believe it?” said Simone, who, Nathalie just now noticed, had been watching her.

  “No,” said Nathalie in an even voice, mustering a small smile. She uprooted her limbs to get a closer view. Every cut on the victims’ faces was rendered carefully.

  “They just unveiled it a few days ago. I was hoping you hadn’t seen the posters. Louis was right. It’s so realistic, isn’t it?”

  Nathalie had been to the museum many times before, just like she’d been to the morgue before she wrote for Le Petit Journal. She’d seen displays of crime scenes and battles and pieces of Parisian life. Everything was a potential tableau at the Musée Grévin; she should have expected it.

  Who knows, thought Nathalie. The victims themselves may even have come here before they died. Or to the morgue itself, to gaze at the corpses they’d join.

  “Almost too realistic.” Had her own reports been used as a reference in its creation? She wondered if the artist who created the molds studied the morgue’s photographs, if M. Gagnon himself handed him the documentation pictures. Or perhaps the artist stood there, in the viewing room, sketching. “Why—why did you want to show me this?”

  “So you could see what you write about, what you experience, through the eyes of an artist,” Simone said. “I thought you might be impressed, maybe even find it thrilling.”

  Nathalie didn’t answer. She felt redness spill across her cheeks.

  “I meant to ask,” continued Simone, “what did you send to the police—something about the gloves and the decorative table? Oh, and that her name is Mirabelle, naturally. Yes?”