Spectacle

by Jodie Lynn Zdrok

  “Call me Christophe.”

  22

  Her insides did a pirouette. “Call me Nathalie.”

  First names. Did that mean no more official questions?

  And coffee. What did that mean?

  They walked to the back of the outdoor café a respectable distance apart, with Nathalie wishing the whole time they were arm in arm. Christophe motioned for her to lead the way, and as she did, she once again picked up on his woodsy-orange blossom scent. As Jean cleared the table, Nathalie watched a man at the table next to them. He had Le Petit Journal open to the tarot card story. She tried to read over his shoulder, but he was sketching something—a music hall, it seemed—and obscured her view.

  Jean seated them and brought over menus. Christophe ordered coffee. Nathalie got coffee and a plate of cheese, fruit, and bread even though she craved a sandwich. If for some reason he changed his mind and wanted some food, she could offer him a slice of brie or ham.

  “I thought it was time we talked,” he said, his tone much less formal than encounters past. His posture was relaxed, too. It was as if the switch to first names changed his demeanor, put him at ease. He had on a pale blue shirt (which, Nathalie observed, made his eyes even more exquisite) and his light brown hair was uncharacteristically disheveled.

  Did he mess it up in the rush to see me?

  As soon as she thought it, she blushed. How ludicrous.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

  Which, of course, only made her blush more.

  “I’m fine,” she said, willing her cheeks to resume their normal hue. “And thank you for your concern. I appreciate it. I don’t know what happened in there. The heat, I guess. Or maybe because I didn’t have much breakfast. Oh, and I had a headache last night. It’s happened before. Only twice. Once in the library studying for exams. It was about three o’clock and all I’d eaten all day was a pain au chocolat, which is what I would have gotten today, now, I mean, if I’d had breakfast this morning. It’s my favorite pastry. The second time was last summer in a park when it was very hot and I stood up quickly after reading Les Misérables for several hours.”

  Why am I rambling? I am not one to ramble. I’m speaking as quickly as Monsieur Patenaude. My hands are quivering. Hands, please stop. Please.

  And now my thoughts are rambling.

  The left corner of Christophe’s mouth curled into a half smile.

  Breathe.

  Nathalie straightened up with a grin. “Talking, yes. As you can see, I’ve already begun.”

  The coffee and the food arrived. She gestured for him to help himself, and when he declined, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

  “So,” he said, tapping the side of his coffee cup, “you’re at the morgue every day, or at least, every day I’m there. Why?”

  Nathalie cut herself a piece of bread. She stared at him a moment as she took a bite, wondering whether or not he already knew the answer to this question. “You alluded to this once before, too. The day we crossed paths outside the bureau de poste.”

  He smiled quick as a wink. “You might say I’m persistently curious.”

  “I think the same could be said about me,” she said, chuckling. She picked up a few crumbs with her fingertip. “I … I write the morgue report for Le Petit Journal.”

  Christophe sat back and folded his arms. For a moment his expression froze in thought, unreadable, before easing into one of bewilderment.

  “You are welcome to go ask Monsieur Patenaude—he’s the editor and a friend of my father’s—yourself,” Nathalie said, sitting up especially straight. “Or I can give you a phrase or two that I’ll include in my article, and you’ll be able to read it in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “You—you aren’t joking,” said Christophe, uncrossing his arms.

  “Not at all.” Nathalie picked at some cheese as she told him how she got the job and how long she’d been there. “Speaking of that time outside the bureau de poste. You also asked me about my clothes, remember?”

  He nodded.

  “I wear trousers when I go to Le Petit Journal,” she said with a shrug. “Monsieur Patenaude thought it best that I dress as a boy so I don’t stand out.”

  “That’s why?” Christophe threw back his head and laughed. “Good ol’ Patenaude. I know the man well, actually. That sounds like him.”

  Nathalie frowned. “Why is that funny?”

  “I’m not laughing at you or him. Or your trousers. I’m laughing at myself,” he said, pointing to his chest. “I must admit, I was terribly embarrassed that day outside by the post, and I didn’t know what to think … with the trousers and whatnot. I—I have never seen a young woman wearing anything other than a skirt or dress.”

  She snickered. He had acted strangely during that encounter.

  After a few beats of silence, he sipped some coffee and cleared his throat. “I saw you didn’t touch the viewing pane at the morgue today.”

  The statement fell on her like one large, all-encompassing raindrop that doused her in confusion.

  “Pardonnez-moi?” It made her uncomfortable that he knew. Knew what? More than he should have, if nothing else. They’d just shared a lighthearted exchange, and now this. The legs on her chair could well have been kicked out.

  He rested his hands under his chin. “It means I think something happens when you place your hand on the viewing pane.”

  Nathalie, briefly wondering if she’d imagined what he just said, replied by taking a sip of coffee. Those few seconds felt like fifteen minutes. “That’s quite a claim, Monsieur Gagn—Christophe.”

  The next thought she had pinched her heart. This friendly, easygoing demeanor might just be a way to persuade her to give up information. Maybe he thought she’d be more cooperative if he came across as more relaxed; maybe this “talk” was all business, no pleasure. She clenched her jaw and pulled her plate closer, annoyed with herself for liking him so much.

  He peeked over his shoulder before answering. “I’ve seen you. Not just the first time; every time there’s a Dark Artist victim. A couple who stood next to you in the viewing room reported it once, too. They heard you say the name ‘Mirabelle.’”

  Hmmm. So it hadn’t been Simone who supplied the tip about Mirabelle. Instead it was some people she hadn’t even noticed watching her. Her stomach lurched as she recalled that older couple with the dog from the previous vision and how they’d moved away from her. Did everyone do that?

  She traced a question mark on the table with her finger. “This is the part where I don’t know what to say next.”

  “I apologize for surprising you. There was no easy way to start this conversation.”

  She looked down. A little bird was at her feet pecking away at crumbs. It reminded her of the first vision, and how she’d come to this café afterward to try to make sense of what had happened. How she’d fed the birds most of her croissant.

  “I reacted with polite skepticism when the couple told me,” Christophe added. “So as not to invite any questions.”

  Wait. He was protecting her?

  Nathalie studied him, with his perfect nose and vigilant blue eyes. Unless he was a magnificent actor, he wasn’t faking it. This friendliness was genuine—yet unexplainable all the same. “Why protect me? And why have you been paying so much attention to me?”

  Indelicate, yes. But it redirected the conversation, which was all she wanted at this point.

  “I think your privacy, everyone’s privacy, deserves protecting. Whatever happens when you touch the viewing pane, you don’t want others to know. I’ve watched you closely since our first encounter, although truthfully I’d noticed you even before then.” Christophe took a sliver of brie from her plate, as if to confirm his sudden familiarity.

  She blushed. “Thank you. It’s nice to know I have a—a friend.”

  The crumb-catching bird half flew, half hopped onto the table and picked at a crumb. “I’m glad we could have this conversation,” Christophe s
aid, his eyes on the bird as it flew away.

  Whether it was his softened tone or protectiveness or the appeal he held for her, she didn’t know. She should have been upset by his questions. Yet she wasn’t. All she knew was that her instinct told her she could trust him.

  “Something happened the other day,” she said, biting her lip. “I didn’t tell anyone. I was angry and frustrated and just wanted it all to go away.”

  The expression on his face invited her, warmly, to continue.

  And so she told Christophe about the jar of blood, the Inspiration note, and how she had thrown it all into the Seine.

  When he responded with understanding rather than a lecture, she decided to tell him about the letter from the Dark Artist as well as the time she thought she was followed.

  He listened with intensity, as if everything she said was the most important detail he’d ever heard. Nathalie liked that.

  “Thank you for making that so much easier than I expected,” she said, smiling with relief. She finished her coffee and wrapped her hands around the cup.

  “You’re welcome. I don’t know how you kept that to yourself for so long. You are brave.” He placed his hand on hers, resting it there a moment before withdrawing it to straighten his collar.

  Nathalie flushed at his words and his touch, a soft touch that was there and then gone like a waft of beguiling perfume. She cast her eyes on the pebbles at her feet.

  “So,” he said, smoothing his collar, “what does happen when you touch the viewing pane?”

  Ah, yes. Ever the interrogator. Hoping he wouldn’t return to his initial curiosity was too lofty a wish.

  A plank or two slipped out of the rapport they’d just built. She could lie and he’d know—because he just knew those things, it seemed—or she could tell the truth, which could garner any number of reactions. Nathalie pressed her thumbs into the cup. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I might. I’ve encountered more than you can imagine.”

  Nathalie scoffed. “This is different.”

  He glanced to the side. The man sketching the music hall appeared to be listening. In a hushed voice, Christophe continued. “What if I told you that as a police liaison, I’ve met someone who could communicate thoughts to someone kilometers away using animals, and someone else who could see a person’s future by holding his or her hand? And yet another person who could smell blood and death like a hound?”

  Nathalie’s flesh tickled inside and out. “I would say those are … very extraordinary people.”

  “They are. I suspect you are, too.” He leaned closer. “You can tell me, Nathalie.”

  Could she?

  She could. He didn’t treat her like a child, or a deranged person, or a storyteller. His honesty and willingness to talk drew her in—a sharp contrast to Maman, who’d tried to hide the truth and then ended the conversation. Christophe had understood everything so far. Maybe he’d understand this, too.

  “I—I have a vision whenever I touch the viewing pane. It was an accident the first time, and for a while I didn’t know what to make of it.” Nathalie let go of the coffee cup, pushing it away. After a sigh, she proceeded to tell him about everything from that first vision through the third, including the tip to the police, her recent discovery about the white gloves, and the memory loss she’d been suffering after each vision.

  She told him her theory about M. Gloves, too, imperfect though it was. Christophe wasn’t convinced he was a possible suspect, and even though her own suspicions had begun to wane, at least the man represented a possibility. No one else so far had.

  Once again he focused on her in a way that made her feel like the most interesting person in the world.

  Here she was, telling him about the visions, and she felt normal.

  “Those people you mentioned,” she said, emphasizing the word people, “did they get their powers from Dr. Henard’s experiments?”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart danced with anticipation. “I found out recently that my aunt was one of his patients. She would have dreams where someone was about to kill an infant. She’s in the asylum now, because of the transfusion and its effects, I think, so I can’t talk to her about it. And my mother won’t answer any questions.”

  Christophe grimaced. “About Henard?”

  “About anything,” Nathalie continued. “She refused to talk about it before I could ask a single question. I don’t know for sure, but I’m assuming that I received one of these blood transfusions as a child. How else can this be explained?”

  “They had reasons to avoid telling you. To protect you, most likely.” He squinted in concentration. “What year were you born?”

  “1871.”

  “So you’re sixteen?”

  “I am.”

  Strange. The hypnotist, too, had asked about her age.

  “Nathalie, I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said. He opened and closed his mouth several times, presumably searching for the right words. “You could not have been one of Dr. Henard’s patients. He was murdered in 1870.”

  23

  Nathalie didn’t speak for a moment. Instead she examined everything around her besides Christophe. The man sketching at the next table, whom Jean the waiter addressed as Walter, and his now-folded-up newspaper. The other patrons in the café, the dishes on their tables. The trees around the perimeter, the scrap-hungry birds.

  Everything fit in. Everything had its place.

  Except for her.

  “Are you sure?” she said, when she could once again look at Christophe.

  “I’m afraid so. He was found in his laboratory, poisoned. Some think it might have been a former patient, some posit it was a colleague, others still think it was a lover. Nothing points to one over any other; it was a clean murder, so to speak. A few days later the Germans surrounded Paris, as it were, so the mystery surrounding his death just dissolved into the chaos.”

  The war between France and Prussia had been over in nine months or so, as Nathalie recalled from her studies, and the German blockade lasted four of them. One dead doctor, even a famous one, was nothing compared to tens of thousands of starving Parisians.

  One girl with unexplainable powers, similar to Henard’s patients yet not one of them, that was something different.

  “What does that make me?”

  He shook his head in sympathy.

  “Ever since this started, I’ve been wondering what I am. Who I am. Then I think maybe, finally, there’s an answer. Or the beginning of an answer.” She waved her hand. “And just as quickly, it vanishes like smoke. I’m a freak.”

  “No, you aren’t. You’re smart and resilient, and you have an incredible power. Just because I don’t have an explanation doesn’t mean no one will.” He drummed the table in thought. “Talk to Monsieur Patenaude. He—he knows more than I do about the Henard experiments.”

  M. Patenaude? He was pleasant enough, and yes, he’d given her the job. He was also strange; she couldn’t imagine opening up to him, friend of Papa’s or not. “Why?”

  Christophe pressed the sides of his coffee cup. “Well … newspaper stories and whatnot. There was no shortage of press about the Insightfuls.”

  “They have a name.” She declared it, resentful that it was they. Not we.

  “An insulting one, at least initially. Once Henard’s credibility went on a downward spiral, anyone who was part of his experiments became a laughingstock,” he said, flinching as he delivered the last word. “I mean no offense to your aunt. That’s just what happened. It’s interesting how words change, nevertheless. ‘Insightfuls’ was derogatory at first, and over time it became rather neutral. Even Insightfuls themselves use it now.”

  A defiant redefinition. Nathalie liked that.

  Jean came over with the check. Christophe, who insisted on paying, settled it and stood up. “I must be going. As it is I’ll have to explain my sudden departure from the morgue.”

  She smiled, rising from her cha
ir. “Departure.”

  He met her smile and pushed in the chair. Walter the sketch artist had gone, leaving Le Petit Journal behind. Nathalie grabbed it and followed Christophe into the street. As they stood outside the entrance, he spotted the newspaper under her arm. “If you choose not to touch the glass anymore, I understand and would not fault you. If you change your mind, please make me aware of anything you see.”

  She still wished to be rid of the visions, now more than ever. “I appreciate it.”

  “For the sake of the investigation, I’ll classify you as an Insightful. If that’s acceptable to you, that is. I recommend it only because they’re treated as credible witnesses if their power reasonably assists an investigation. Most prefer to keep their magic a secret these days, so they’re granted the option of anonymity. Since we don’t know for sure…”

  His voice trailed off. Since we don’t know for sure what you are, we’ll make believe you fit into a category we understand.

  What else was there to do? “I suppose that’s a good idea. Practical, anyway.”

  “Very good. And one more thing,” he said in a softer tone, stepping closer. “Once before, I told you to be safe. The blood jar, letters, being followed—if anything else happens, come to me. It may or may not be the Dark Artist. But always come to me from now on. Whatever else you choose to do, please promise me this.”

  “I promise,” she said. Her voice caught in her throat, just a bit, because she’d never been so attracted to anyone. And only in that moment, when he bid her good-bye, did she realize it.

  * * *

  She sat on a wall outside Notre-Dame to read the newspaper and write her article. The Dark Artist sent “Paris,” via Le Petit Journal, nothing other than the Lovers fastened onto a paper with his signature. A tarot card reader who asked to remain anonymous suggested that the Dark Artist “might be mocking the idea of choosing a romantic partner” and “doing this to sneer at the idea of love,” both of which sounded like reasonable interpretations to Nathalie.