‘The Connecticut police want you in connection with the murder of Mrs Kemp. She was discovered hacked to death by a machete, and the fingerprints on the machete were yours.’
Charlie said, ‘What have you done to me? And why?’
Mme Musette laid her one fingered hand on Charlie’s knee, making him recoil. ‘We have done nothing, Mr McLean. Everything that happened to you has been a consequence of your own actions. If you had simply accepted that your son has chosen a different path from yours, then you would have been free to continue your life unharmed and unmolested. We are a religious order; not terrorists.’
She stood up, and drew her cloak tightly around her. ‘I shall be back. We have much more to talk about. By Friday, I want you to believe.’
‘You can want what you like, you won’t get it from me.’
‘Mr McLean,’ said Mme Musette. ‘I want you to believe not for my sake but for yours. You are a man whose existence has no meaning. You stumble through life as if you are wearing a blindfold. You allow yourself nothing: no purpose; no love. Even when you attempt to indulge yourself, as you did with Velma, it brings you nothing but difficulty and pain. Think about it, Mr McLean, I am talking about having a goal. I am talking about bringing back the Saviour Jesus Christ in order to save the entire world. Your son is already part of that. In fact, your son is the ultimate part of that. You could be part of it, too.’
Charlie said, ‘I think you’d better get out of here.’
‘Very well,’ said Mme Musette. To Charlie’s complete surprise, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. ‘I shall come later, some time this afternoon, when you have rested some more.’
She left, and closed the door behind her. Charlie didn’t hear a key turn in the lock, but when he went across and tried the handle, he found that he couldn’t open the door even by wrestling with it. He went back to the bed and sat down.
So – the Célèstines had sewn him up. He couldn’t go to the police for help, nor to the media – and that was supposing he was able to escape, stark naked, in the middle of New Orleans. On Friday the Célèstines were going to sacrifice Martin in the deranged belief that his death would bring about the second coming of Christ, and there was nothing at all that he could do about it.
He lay back on his pillow and cursed himself for handling the Célèstines so clumsily. Their friends in the FBI and local police forces must have been tracking him and Robyn all the way from Waterbury to New Orleans; and the Musettes must have flown to New Orleans yesterday. Some private investigator he turned out to be.
About a half-hour later, the nurse in the wimple came in and re-dressed his wound for him. She gave him another pain-killing injection and took his pulse, watching him all the time with eyes as blue as water.
‘Do you really work for these freaks?’ Charlie asked her, but she didn’t answer. She packed up her black leather medical case and straightened his sheet and left him lying alone in his plain whitewashed room with only the nagging ache in his missing finger for company.
Charlie began to think about Mme Musette. Did it really show that badly, that he was living a life without purpose? There had never been very much purpose to begin with, but he had lost it for ever when he had driven past her house that day when her husband was beating her. Why hadn’t he stopped? Why hadn’t he jumped out of the car and run across the snowy sidewalk and beaten up her husband and claimed her for his own?
Maybe he had realized that, for her, he was just a dream, and that she never would have been happy leaving her husband. He beat her, but she belonged to him. She had told Charlie about the beatings, but she had never complained about them. Charlie had always been so tender towards her, bringing her flowers, treating her like a princess. Maybe that wasn’t what cocktail waitresses wanted out of life. Maybe tenderness without pain had no meaning.
He could see her in his mind’s eye as clearly as if he had only just turned away from her. Her name was Dolores. He had met her in the bar of what had then been called the Sheraton Schröder, in Milwaukee. He had been drunk and she had been desperate to hide the bruises on her cheek. They had fallen genuinely in love. It had been one of those sad stories, played on an off-key piano. ‘When I fall in love... it will be for ever... or I’ll never fall in love...’
Dolores would haunt him for ever more. He would see her face the day he died, watching him in desperation as he drove past her.
He slept for a while. The drugs made him feel incredibly dopey. When he woke up, there was a tray on his bedside table, with cold chicken and salad and a glass of mineral water. The sky outside the small, high window was intensely blue, as if somebody had spilled ink across a drawing pad. The live oak shone gold. He drank the mineral water but he couldn’t face the thought of eating. His throat was still sore from yesterday’s vomiting. And chicken! How could he possibly eat anything that had once been alive?
Later, when the sky was beginning to pale, Mme Musette reappeared, wrapped in her cloak like a Bedouin, with only her eyes showing. She sat in her chair beside his bed, and said nothing at all for five or ten minutes; simply watching him, and waiting to see what he would do.
‘You’ve been thinking,’ she said at last.
‘Of course I’ve been thinking. There’s nothing else to do.’
‘No – I mean thinking seriously. Thinking about yourself.’
‘What if I have?’ Charlie challenged her.
Mme Musette allowed her eyes to register amusement. ‘It’s good for you, to think about yourself. Perhaps you’re beginning to understand that you need some purpose in your life. You can’t spend the rest of your life aimlessly wandering from one restaurant to another, until MARIA decides that you’re past your prime. Because what will you do then? Will you kill yourself? Or will you simply allow yourself to fall to pieces, little by little, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of you but unfulfilled longings and curled up credit card slips?’
Charlie said, ‘You’d better go. You’re not going to convert me. You’re wasting your time.’
Mme Musette stood up. She drew back her black cloak. Underneath it, she wore a severe black dress, and black stiletto shoes. ‘I promise you, Charlie, you will kneel down in front of me, before this week is finished. You will kneel down in front of me and kiss my feet and profess your love for Jesus, the resurrected Saviour, and for Saint Célèstine, and you will tell me that you adore me.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Charlie.
Mme Musette came closer. Charlie could smell her perfume, which was rich and exotic; but he could also smell her womanly body. There was a hint of that honey-and-bleach odour about her, as if she had very recently had sexual intercourse. She kissed his forehead, even though he turned away, and said, ‘You are such a fool. The whole world is lying in front of you, stretched out at your feet. It could be yours.’
‘I insist that you release my son,’ said Charlie.
‘How can we release him, if he has never been captive? He came to join us of his own free will; he remains here of his own free will. Yesterday, he was flown down to Acadia with my husband, M. Musette, and the remaining Devotees from Connecticut. The moment of ultimate fulfilment is fast approaching! We want you to share in it, Charlie. We want you to participate! We want you to understand at last what belonging can mean, and the joy of joining with others in the name of Jesus Christ!’
Charlie said, ‘You have to let him go. I’m his father. You can do what you like with me, but you have to let Martin go. I mean it, Mme Musette. He has his whole life in front of him. I’m not going to allow him to waste it on some oddball sect like the Célèstines.’
‘So you do believe in self-sacrifice,’ said Mme Musette triumphantly.
‘What do you mean?’ Charlie demanded.
‘You would give up your life to save your son.’
‘If there were no alternative, yes.’
‘But your son is offering to give up his life for the Son of Man. Is that any different? How can you appr
ove of one kind of sacrifice and deny the validity of another?’
Charlie rubbed his eyes. ‘If you think you’re going to be able to persuade me with that kind of argument, you’re wrong.’
Mme Musette said nothing for a very long time. Charlie, for his part, volunteered no further questions and no further comments. He had nothing to say to Mme Musette except that he wanted Martin to be released, not only from his physical bondage but from his mental bondage, too.
At last, Mme Musette said, ‘Do you wish to leave?’
Charlie looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You can leave here if you want to, and take your chances in the world outside.’
‘You’d let me?’ asked Charlie suspiciously.
‘If you really feel that there is nothing for you here, yes.’ Mme Musette looked incomparably beautiful in the late afternoon light that fell through the window. Her dark hair shone like the wing of some rare desirable bird of paradise.
‘All I want is my son.’
‘You cannot have your son. Your son is not a possession. He does not belong to you, any more than he belongs to us.’
‘Then there isn’t any point in my leaving, is there? I might as well stay here.’
‘The choice is yours, Charlie. I don’t want anyone to say that we held you here against your will. How does your finger feel?’
‘It still hurts. Maybe not as badly as it did before.’
Mme Musette kissed him again. This time, he did not recoil. Her kisses were strangely alluring, and consoling, too. Her lips were very cool, and somehow he didn’t mind being held by those hands which had only one finger and a thumb. Mme Musette left the room, closing and locking the door, but for a long time her perfume lingered in the air, like a memory that refused to die.
Charlie eased himself off the bed and went to the window. If he stood on tiptoe, he could see the edge of an adjacent rooftop, and the back of a brick facade. The clouds rolled by, curdled and lazy and trailing skirts of misty rain.
He seemed to have reached an impasse – a point in his life at which he was equally unable to go forward or to go back. Ahead lay the horrors which – even though they had been graphically described to him – were still unimaginable. Behind him lay indecision, confusion, and a lack of fulfilment so complete that it yawned in his life like a chasm. He stood naked looking out of the window of the cell from which he had been invited to escape, and tears ran down his cheeks and on to his chest.
When it was dark, they brought him a supper of grilled white fish and wholemeal bread. He asked if he could take a bath or a shower, but the girl who brought him the food didn’t reply. Close on midnight he lay on his bed and fell asleep, his finger still throbbing with every pulse as a reminder of his own folly.
18
It was scarcely dawn when he became aware of somebody moving around in his room, and the rustling of fabric. He opened his eyes just as the door closed, but he was sure that he glimpsed the swirl of a long black cloak, like a shadow disappearing under a bridge. He sat up in bed and saw that his clothes had been neatly laid out on the footboard of his bed, his shirt and his pants and his sports coat, although there was no underwear or socks.
He climbed out of bed, and went directly across to the door. He tried the handle and it was unlocked. He opened it as quietly as he could, and peered out into the corridor. He could smell flowers, and flesh, and floor polish, but the house seemed silent and the corridors appeared to be deserted. He closed the door, and quickly went back to his room to dress. A few hours of sleep had done wonders for his optimism. If Mme Musette was offering him a chance to get out of here, then he was prepared to take it – even if it was just another ambush. He pulled on his pants and his shirt, slung his sports coat around his shoulders, and stepped out of the room barefooted.
They’re watching me, he thought, as he hurried along the corridor towards the stairs. They know exactly what I’m doing but for some reason they want me to go. Well, I won’t disappoint them. I want to go too. This place is making me mental.
He took the softly carpeted stairs three at a time. The staircase led directly down to the main hallway, which was panelled in Cuban mahogany and hung with impenetrably dark oil paintings. The huge front doors were locked but only from the inside. Charlie slid the bolts one-handed, and turned the latch. Quite abruptly, and without any difficulty at all, he was out on the street.
It was Royal Street, as he expected. The air was cold and damp and there was very little traffic around, except for a garbage truck toiling from one restaurant to another, collecting sackfuls of trash. Charlie closed the door of the Célèstine house behind him, and crossed the street. On the opposite sidewalk, he turned around and looked back at the house. Its black balconies were empty; its black shutters were closed tight over its windows. If anybody was watching him, they were keeping themselves well out of sight. Charlie hesitated for just one moment, then turned the corner and made his way back to the St Victoir Hotel.
He crossed the lobby and went up in the elevator to the third floor. He tapped on the door of his room, and waited. When there was no answer, he tapped again. ‘Robyn? It’s me, Charlie! Open up!’
Still there was no reply. Charlie knocked again, very much louder, and said, ‘Robyn? Robyn? Are you there?’
At that moment, a voice behind him said, ‘If you’re looking for your wife, Mr McLean, you’re out of luck.’ Charlie turned around to find the fat woman like Jabba the Hutt standing behind him with her hands on her hips.
‘She was booked to stay another day,’ said Charlie.
‘Sure she was. But she said she had to check out, didn’t say why. She paid for the room on her credit card and went. But she left you this letter. Said to make sure that nobody else got to know about it.’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Charlie, and took the letter with a frown.
The fat woman said, ‘You hurt your hand?’
Charlie said, ‘What?’ And then, ‘Yes, oh yes. I got it caught in the door of my car.’
‘Your wife took your car. And your baggage, too, such as it was.’ The fat woman smiled as if she expected to hear some rare scandal when Charlie opened his letter.
Charlie tore open the envelope with his teeth, and tugged out the enclosed sheets of paper. In Robyn’s deft, sprawling handwriting, he read:
Dearest Charlie, I have been followed ever since you left me and I am worried that they might be Célèstines. I have tried to shake them off several times but they always pick up my trail again which suggests that they know that I am staying here. I am moving to the Hotel Pontchartrain on Canal Street and will stay there until I hear from you. I am registered under the name of Batger which was my mother’s maiden name. If they are still following me I will move again but I will leave you a forwarding letter. Love, love, love, Robyn.
Charlie folded up the letter and tucked it into his pocket.
‘Not bad news?’ the fat woman asked, with considerable relish.
‘No, no. My wife had to go back to New York. Her father suffered a stroke.’
The fat woman said, ‘You didn’t stay here the last two nights, did you?’
Charlie looked at her, but didn’t answer.
‘I’m not being nosy,’ the fat woman told him, ‘but there was some gentlemen asking after you. Tall, polite. Frenchmen, I’d say.’
Charlie took out Robyn’s letter again and held it up. ‘You didn’t show them this?’
‘My dear sir, I didn’t even tell them I had it. I may tattle now and again, but I don’t break the confidences of my guests, believe you me, that’s more than my position is worth.’
Charlie said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tip you, I don’t have any money.’
The fat woman wobbled her jowls. ‘Never you mind. Your wife paid me good. And when you do get yourself some money, the first thing you’d better get yourself is some shoes.’
Charlie looked down at his bare feet. ‘I guess you’re right. One pair of Gucci loafers, urgently re
quired.’
‘There’s some plastic sandals in the closet under the stairs,’ the fat woman told him. ‘You can borrow them. The cleaning man uses them when he’s sluicing the lobby.’
So it was that Charlie set out west along Bourbon Street at six o’clock in the morning wearing blue plastic flip-flop sandals. A cruising police car followed him slowly for a couple of blocks, making him sweat, but after a while it turned south, and he was alone again. An elderly black was wheeling a pushcart slowly along Royal Street and calling out, ‘Ragaboon! Ragaboon!’ It reminded Charlie of that song. ‘Rags and old iron... rags and old iron... all that he wanted was rags and old iron.’
He reached the intersection of Royal and Canal, opposite Shoppers World and the tall balconied building of Leonard Krower & Son. He crossed over, and headed north towards the Hotel Pontchartrain. He felt tired and thirsty and his finger joint was beginning to hurt again. His plastic sandals flopped on the sidewalk, and once he almost tripped over them because they were two sizes too small.
In spite of its grandiose name, the Hotel Pontchartrain was a small modern hotel that had been built on the site of the old Tessler building. Charlie pushed his way through the bronze-tinted revolving doors and into the brown-carpeted lobby. It was chilly inside; the air conditioning was down to fifty-five degrees. As he waited at the reception desk for the smooth-faced black receptionist to finish checking in a pair of British students who were determined to make sure that they took advantage of everything that was included in the price of their package vacation, Charlie began to shiver, like a man close to the end of his endurance.
‘Ms Badger?’ the receptionist repeated. ‘I’ll call her room number for you.’
‘Batger,’ Charlie corrected him.
‘Badger,’ the receptionist dutifully agreed.
At last, Robyn answered the phone. The receptionist nodded to Charlie, and said, ‘She says to go on up. Room 501.’
Charlie leaned against the side of the elevator with his eyes half closed, ignoring the stares of the British students, for whom his dishevelled appearance had obviously confirmed everything they had ever heard about violent America. Blood was seeping into the gauze around his left hand, and his face in the elevator mirror was ash-grey, like a zombie.
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