Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I)

by David George Clarke

Chapter 14 : 1677-1701

  Gisèle thumped her fist hard onto the map table that she and the three men were squeezed around in the tiny cabin.

  “I cannot believe you, Philippe!” she yelled, her eyes flashing with anger.

  Henri and Michel’s heads shot up as they were jolted from their introspection. They had been struggling to understand what Philippe had been quietly explaining to them about his ‘condition’ and how he thought they were the same. It was beyond anything they had ever imagined, and yet their father had laid out a convincing case. Over the last hour there had been many questions, mostly from Henri, the more outspoken of the brothers. Occupied with their own thoughts, none of the men had noticed Gisèle’s whole demeanour darkening with a growing anger.

  Philippe wasn’t too surprised at Gisèle’s outburst – he had seen her temper before – but he wasn’t expecting the reason for it.

  “I know it’s hard to believe, Gisèle. Perhaps if I showed you some of my earlier work, you might be more convinced.”

  He picked up one of his leather portfolios and started to open it, but Gisèle wasn’t interested. Her eyes burned into his and she laughed scornfully.

  “It’s not your story I cannot believe!” she screamed. “Although I think you might well be completely mad. What I can’t forgive, if your story is true and not some nonsense dreamed up to upset me, is that you didn’t tell Arlette!”

  She stood up, knocking over her chair. She whirled around in frustration, wanting to pace the floor but unable to in the small space. Tearing at her hair, she turned again to the table and thumped the middle of it with her fists.

  “How could you not tell her?” she shouted. “She was living with you all those years. She looked after you, cared for you, loved you. And you kept this secret of yours from her? Weren’t she good enough to know the truth about you? Sweet Jesus, she was the mother of your two sons, who you now say are the same as you!”

  She leaned over, her face inches from Philippe’s. “She had a right to know!” she screamed, even louder than before. “A right!”

  She kicked at the fallen chair, picked it up and sat down hard on it.

  “It would have changed everything if you’d told her. She might have given up the tavern and still be alive. But instead she’s dead, and it’s your fault, Philippe! Your fault! I can never forgive you! Never!”

  She let her head fall onto her arms, her body convulsed with sobbing.

  Philippe reached out a hand, but Henri grabbed his wrist. “No, Papa, I’ll look after her.”

  Gisèle looked up and recoiled in her chair.

  “Don’t touch me!” she screamed. “I never want you to touch me again!” She paused, turning her wild eyes to Henri and Michel.

  “You’re both in league with him, aren’t you? You suspected this, didn’t you? You’re all crazy heartless bastards. If this is what being immortal does to you, I don’t want nothing to do with it!”

  She stood up, tore open the cabin door and stormed out.

  Philippe sagged in his chair.

  “Henri,” he said quietly, “I think you’d better follow her. In this mood, she could blurt out all sorts of nonsense. She clearly didn’t understand when I told her we are anything but immortal. I’m concerned about what she might say to the crew. It’s bad enough for them having a woman on board. If they think she’s mad, who knows what they might do?”

  “I’m not surprised she didn’t understand it all, Papa; it’s very hard to believe. And I think she has a point. Why didn’t you tell Maman?”

  There was a hard edge to Henri’s voice.

  “I don’t know, Henri; I meant to, I wanted to. I nearly told her on a number of occasions. But Maman was always very volatile, like Gisèle is. I was afraid that she’d reject me, that she’d throw me out. We had many fierce arguments, you know.”

  “Yes, Papa, I know. It was quite difficult not to overhear them.”

  Philippe’s lips formed a thin, humourless smile.

  He sighed wearily. “Listen, Henri, I really think you should go after Gisèle. We can discuss this later.”

  Henri nodded. “Yes, I’ve never seen her like that.” He stood, turned to his father as if he was going to say more, but then he shook his head and marched out of the cabin.

  Philippe turned to his younger son. “Do you have anything to say, Michel? It was Henri who asked the questions and who seemed to have all the doubts.”

  “Do you mean about your not telling Maman, or about us having the same ‘condition’ as you?” Michel’s tone was harsh, accusing.

  “Any of it, Michel, all of it. I know how difficult this must be for you to accept. It was hard to tell you even though I wanted you to know. In all my ridiculously long life, this is the first time that I have been able to tell a child of mine that they’re the same as I am – the first time in two hundred and fifty years. For the others I’ve told, it was different – they weren’t the same as me. What they had to understand, which was difficult enough, was that their father was not only going to outlive them, but in their old age he would look like their son or grandson. For us, Michel, we shall always look like brothers.”

  Michel frowned. “Do you think we are the only ones, Papa? What about the daughter in Naples?”

  “She is the only other person like us I have ever known of. And I don’t know for certain because I have never met her.”

  He paused and reached for Michel’s hand. “But I am certain about you and Henri, and that is now the most important thing in my life. Memories are one thing, and I have a lot more than other people, but that’s all they are – memories. It’s the present that’s important and we need to decide where we are going from here.”

  Michel nodded wearily. “I’m so tired, Papa. The last few days have been terrible. I still can’t stop thinking about Maman and wondering if there is more I could have done; if I could have saved her from that madman.”

  “You saved Henri with a remarkable piece of quick thinking. You couldn’t have done more. None of us could have predicted that Brochard would have killed Maman in cold blood like he did. We are all tired, Michel, but we have avenged Maman’s murder, even if the price we must pay is exile. I suggest you try to get some sleep.”

  Soon after six in the evening, there was a knock on Philippe’s door. It was Henri.

  “Papa, are you awake?”

  “Yes, Henri, come in.”

  The door opened and a stern-faced Henri entered followed by Gisèle, her whole body still radiating anger.

  Philippe did his best to ignore their faces and smiled at them. “Sit down, both of you. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “The steward brought us dinner, Papa, which I’ve eaten, but Gisèle wasn’t hungry.”

  Philippe looked at the girl. “You need to eat, you know, Gisèle. You must keep your strength up.”

  “I know what I need, Philippe, I need to get off this ship. We both do, Henri and me. We don’t wanta stay any longer. We’ll get off at the first port in Italy and take our chances.”

  Philippe sighed. “I really don’t think that’s the best idea. We should stick together. I know how angry you are with me, and I can understand it, but I can’t change the past, no matter how much I might want to.”

  “Don’t matter,” pouted Gisèle, “we just wanta get off. We wanta stop at Genoa.”

  “Have you spoken to Michel about it?”

  “Yeah. He don’t agree. Thinks we’re stupid. Don’t wanta come wiv us.”

  Philippe noticed that as the girl’s sullenness increased, so did her Marseille accent. A thought occurred to him about their destination.

  “How’s your Italian, Gisèle? Or at least the Genovese dialect?”

  “What?”

  “The language, Gisèle. I don’t think you speak any Italian, do you? I know Henri doesn’t. How are you going to manage? No job, nowhere to live, no money.”

  “We’ll soon pick up the lingo; can’t be that difficult. Anyway, it�
��ll be the same for you, so goin’ our own way won’t make no difference.”

  He looked into her eyes and saw confusion amongst the anger. He smiled.

  “What’s so funny, Philippe, don’t yer think we can do it?”

  Philippe sat back in his chair. His mouth twisted into a sneer while his eyes flitted from one of them to the other. After a few seconds, he stretched out his arms as if in greeting, but his eyes were cold.

  “My dear young friends, welcome to our wonderful city of Genoa. These are my companions, slit-throat Mauro and cut-purse Tito. They’ll be pleased to relieve you of any valuables you have about your person and you won’t even feel a thing. And what else have you got to offer, young lady? I’m sure that Mauro’s roving hands would like to find out. Let’s take you down this alley and Mauro can teach you the ways of Genoa before he passes you round his friends.”

  Their mouths dropped open. Philippe had spoken to them in rapid-fire Italian dialect.

  “It isn’t the same for me, Gisèle,” said Philippe, reverting to French. “Didn’t you realise from what I told you this morning? I am Italian, not French. I speak the language and a number of dialects. And believe me, you won’t simply pick it up overnight. As for Genoa, it makes Marseille look like a peaceful country village; you wouldn’t last a few minutes.”

  He told them what he’d said and their eyes opened wide in shock.

  “It would be madness to try to make it on your own,” he continued. “And, Henri, you have your apprenticeship to think about. Neither you nor Michel is ready to make a living as an artist yet.”

  They decided they would head for Siena. Philippe had worked there nearly a hundred years before and was confident he could establish a studio. For their new identities they chose to be French-speaking Italians from the north of Piedmont, the Lorenzini brothers. Only Philippe changed his Christian name; to Claudio. The boys saw no reason to change theirs, while Gisèle steadfastly refused to change at all, although she did agree to be their cousin.

  However, Gisèle did change in other ways. Always volatile, her involvement in the killing of Arlette’s murderer played increasingly on her mind. She became sullen and moody; always short-tempered. And she never forgave Claudio, despite his best efforts to win her over. Ever restless, once Henri had established a reputation for himself, Gisèle urged him to move elsewhere.

  “Siena’s so dull,” she would repeat daily. “You should be working in a more exciting city like Rome. We could have much more fun there.”

  By 1685, there was no longer any reason to delay. They were now totally fluent in Italian, Gisèle with a strong Sienese accent that could match the rough nature of her street Marseille dialect when she chose, and they were confident that they could survive.

  Claudio was sad to see them go, but he knew, as he had with his son Piero more than a hundred years before, that it was what Henri needed. He had also had enough of the constant attrition of Gisèle’s moods.

  For Henri, it was a successful move. He had matured well as an artist and he quickly found acclaim in The Eternal City. He wrote regularly, regaling Claudio and Michel with glowing tales of his success. But for a long time he said little about Gisèle. It wasn’t until after a rare letter from Michel that Henri admitted that Gisèle had fallen in with a dissolute crowd and had started to drink heavily. However, he insisted that he still loved her and would support her for as long as she wanted him.

  In June 1694, the now very successful Henri visited Siena for the first time in several years. After the initial euphoria of recounting his many commissions, the conversation inevitably turned to Gisèle. Claudio was pleased to hear that she and Henri had gone their separate ways for most of the previous year. She was still in Rome but had moved in with a sculptor, a bear of a man from Sicily who liked his drink as much as she did. The separation had not been Henri’s idea: he felt as protective and drawn to Gisèle as he ever had, despite her temper, abuse and drinking. The problem had been Gisèle. Her lifestyle had aged her and she had found the burden of living with a man who was looking increasingly like her son too hard to bear. Her jealousy over his never-changing youthful looks and health had consumed her and turned into a sour hatred.

  “You must be careful, Henri,” cautioned Claudio. “She could be dangerous. When she is the worse for drink, her tongue will become very loose. ”

  “You are right, Papa, and rest assured, I do take care. But I miss the girl I used to know, even though she was always hotheaded. It’s the drinking that has turned her mind.”

  In May 1701, Claudio was eagerly preparing for his first trip to Rome for four years. Henri had arranged a full calendar for him to meet other artists and view many new works. Michel was accompanying Claudio and excited to be seeing his brother again. Claudio was, therefore, totally shocked when on answering a knock on the studio door, he found Henri’s apprentice Enrico standing before him, mud-splattered and tearful, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to speak. Claudio took the young man by the shoulders and guided him into the room.

  “Enrico, my boy, whatever is it?” he said, the deep sadness in the boy’s eyes causing him to shiver in apprehension.

  Finally Enrico shuddered and looked down. “Signor Lorenzini...” He gulped some air. “Signore, it is Henri.”

  “Henri!” cried Claudio. “What has happened? Is he injured?”

  “He is dead, signore. Murdered by that woman he used to live with. His cousin.”

  Claudio stood clutching the almost-collapsing Enrico, unable to take in what he had heard.

  Michel stepped forward to them. “Murdered, Enrico? By Gisèle? I cannot believe it.”

  He took Enrico’s arm and guided him to a chair. He fetched a glass of wine, but the young man waved it away.

  “I just need some water.”

  Enrico took a deep breath to gather his thoughts.

  “Oh, signori, it was so terrible. Henri was in his studio along with a young client whose portrait he was painting, Signorina Daniela d’Alemo. Her sister, Rosanna, and cousin, Portia were also present. I was out buying materials for the studio. According to the cousin, the studio door was suddenly kicked open by a giant of a man, a huge ogre with a long black beard. With the giant was the woman, Gisèle. She immediately pointed at Henri and screamed wildly that he was the one, the one who was immortal. The giant sneered that if he was immortal then he wouldn’t worry about a little nick of his sword. Henri, being immediately protective of the ladies, pushed them behind himself, his arms outstretched to shield them. He yelled at the giant to get out, that he should take no notice of the ramblings of a drunk. But that only angered the man. He pulled his sword and cut Henri on the arm. At the sight of blood the giant sniggered that perhaps Henri wasn’t immortal after all. As he turned to say this to the woman, Henri rushed forward to grapple with him, but the giant swung his arm round, knocking Henri to the ground. Then he jabbed again at his face and arms.”

  Enrico paused and Michel helped him to some more water. He glanced up at Claudio and was shocked. The only other time he had seen his father’s eyes so cold was when Arlette had been murdered. It was as if a thundercloud had descended on him.

  Enrico continued. “The giant was now taunting the almost helpless Henri and laughing and sneering at Gisèle that Henri was no more than an ordinary man. Gisèle screamed that it was impossible to kill Henri, even if he ran him through. She ran at the giant and tried to take the sword from him, screaming that she’d show him. At this point, Daniela tried to intervene but she hadn’t noticed that Gisèle was carrying a knife. As Daniela grabbed her by the hair, Gisèle turned and plunged the knife into her heart, yelling that if she was Henri’s whore, she could die with him. Her language, signori, was apparently so appalling that the cousin couldn’t bring herself to repeat the actual words.”

  “I can imagine,” Claudio replied in a hollow whisper.

  “Having witnessed this terrible incident, Henri was attempting to get to his feet when the giant turned an
d lunged at him with the sword, piercing his chest and his heart. As he collapsed, Gisèle threw herself on him, screaming his name. This enraged the giant. He screamed obscenities and ran her through with his sword so forcefully that the blade also pierced through Henri and became firmly fixed in the floor. The giant was trying to withdraw it when Rosanna bravely smashed a large clay jar over his head, knocking him unconscious. Rosanna and Portia were found in each others arms when two neighbours, aroused by all the noise, came to investigate.”

  “And the giant?” Claudio asked.

  “He was arrested by the guard and has been thrown in gaol. There is little doubt he will hang.”

  “What of the young women after this terrible ordeal?” asked Michel.

  “Rosanna is in total shock. She has not spoken since and the physician fears for her sanity. Portia has a stronger constitution and although terribly shocked, is able to speak.”

  Claudio sat down on a stool and bent over, his head in his hands. Several minutes passed before he looked up. “Enrico, when did all this happen?”

  “Yesterday, signore. I would have come earlier but my father thought it safer to leave at first light rather than ride part of the way in the dark.”

  “We are indebted to you, Enrico. To leave so quickly when you yourself must have been overcome with grief, we are truly indebted. You must have ridden like the wind.”

  “When do you want to leave for Rome, signore? Since I assume there will be three of us, we could risk riding through the night.”

  Claudio was deeply touched by the boy’s earnestness. “While my heart yearns to be there immediately to deal with my s … er my brother’s body, a few hours will make little difference. I think it would be better to leave at first light. By then you will be refreshed.”

  Henri’s funeral passed in a blur. They had wanted a small, private ceremony, but Henri was famous and several hundred friends and clients expected the right to display their grief. After, when Claudio and Michel were at Henri’s studio sorting through his belongings and paintings, Claudio came across a number of sketches of Gisèle. They portrayed an altogether calmer, happier woman, her captivating smile the one they remembered from when she was a girl in Marseille.

  Claudio passed them to his son. “What shall we do with these, Michel?”

  Michel looked through them, his face emotionless. Then, without a word, he tore them to shreds.

  They took two days to ride back to Siena. Neither of them was in a hurry and they said little, both still coming to terms with their pain. On the second day, they stopped for lunch in a field by a stream not far from the hill town of Montepulciano.

  Michel took a bite from an apple and chewed on it reflectively.

  “You know, Papa, now Henri is gone, I don’t think I want to stay in this country any longer. The language has always been a problem for me, and the people, well, they are not like us.” He paused, remembering his father’s history. “Well, they are not like me, anyway. They’re not French.”

  He took another bite from his apple. “I’d really like to return to France, perhaps to Marseille. It’s where I’m from and where I know I’d feel at home. What’s more, I can communicate with people there. What do you think?”

  Claudio smiled at him. “I agree, Michel. We should go somewhere we are both at ease. As to where, there are many places to choose from, but I don’t think we should return to Marseille. Not yet. I know it’s been twenty-four years now since we left, but memories can be long; it would be better to wait a few more years. However, it’s been nearly sixty years since I was in Paris and you’ve never been there. It’s an exciting city and I know our talents can bring us some success there as they did before for me. I think you’d like it. Shall we go to Paris?”