“I knows plenny, nenny, Né-ni, Ni-Ni. . . plenny of thingsh, yeth, shit! SHIT!” he barked, pulling out a chair and nearly falling from his own with the effort. “You shit here, Nicolath.”
“Please. . . .” An eeling knot threatened to choke the flame which darted in my mind. I had to keep that flame burning. I pushed the photograph closer. It felt like a thin slice of ice. He picked it up. I saw his hands were ruined with age, shot nerves, and grime.
“Ni-na, na-na . . .” he sang inanely under his breath and it seemed an unforgivable blasphemy, no matter how terrible the truth, for the foul-smelling soaker to be pawing that precious artefact, the only trace that my parents and I were once a family. I was sorely tempted to snatch the picture away and run back to Rose’s kitchen. I thought I had not really been home for months; I had been haunting an underworld. I asked myself at what moment I had fallen; for ever since the theft of the china monkey I thought of myself as fallen – a favourite word of Other Mother’s. The Cod’s wife was a fallen woman; undoubtedly, so was my mother. But the more I thought about it, the further back that feeling of falling seemed to reach, even preceding the night I saw the face of the Ogress in the moon.
That Sunday morning in the Snail and Shark, the droning of the drunken woman in the shadows and the sound of the sailor’s humming in my ears, I knew that the underworld had always been with me. Toujours-Là’s stories had only rendered it palpable. Exhaled from every pore of my body, my own natal inferno had swollen into a sort of all-encompassing fog. Somehow I knew that only the truth could cause that fog to lift.
“Wash hap . . . hap to her faish?”
“Rose, I guess. . . must have –”
“Better not look into the faish of Lilish!”
“She was called Lily?”
“Odille.”
I took up the name Odille and turned it over and over in my mind, as I had so often picked a pebble from the beach and sucked on it to give it back its colour.
“Odille,” he continued, “like odi-oush.” I held my breath. “Like Ogresh!” He sat back triumphantly. Then he rubbed the empty place where her face had been with a filthy finger. He left a dark smudge. “There wash even a song about her. About them all. Whilst you wash tucked away in Rose’s little spun sugar nest they wash singing about Odille in the sh-streets! Odille an’ your papa and Thomas. Thomas – Odille’s lover.” I bit my lip and tasted blood. “I’m telling you all thish because when you ask questions you’re old enough for ashes.” I nodded, but the flame in my mind was giving off an oily smoke and threatened to choke itself, and Toujours-Là looked more like a corpse animated by necromancy than a man. Yet I wanted to know everything.
“A song? About Odille?” Toujours-Là began to hum and when he thought he had found the tune he sang in a weedy voice:
“O the Devil iza woman
She’s the worl’ beneath her heel
an’ she kicks it hard
like a spinnin’ wheel.
Her eyes is midnight
her heart is steel
an’ her name is Odille.
Odille put on her silk shoes
Wit’ the pretty heel;
she took up her kitchen knife –”
“A knife?” I clutched his arm.
“Juz in the song. Ac-shually she din’ have a knife. Twash Thomas choked –” He began to hum: “Too dee, tee dee, te-deum.
“O Thomash, foolish Thomash
O tell me what you’ve done –
“Tee dee, too dee-ah! Confound it, Nini. I can’t recall the thing. ’Cept the end goes sumpin –” He cleared his throat and spat:
“An’ now they is no ’ore.
Jus three corpses. . . three corpses on the shore!”
From the far end of the room the woman joined in boozily: “Three horses on the floor –”
“Hey! Wun minute!” Toujours-Là cried. “Before the end it goes: ‘They was waiting on the beash wish stish!’ ”
“Beash? Wish? Stish?”
“Stishks! Stikshs! They wa-as waiting on the beash, see! They killed Odille. And Thomash too!”
“Who?”
“Ev’rybody. Hiding they wash. On the beash. Behind the sea wall. With stishks!” I attempted to decipher this. “Odille wa’ a witch. A booful witsh. An’ he . . . an’ he –”
“Who! He? My father?”
“He waza foo’ – never knew wa wash going on. Innocent he wash aza new hashed hen. His head somewheres in the clows . . . he lived on the moon, notta man for Odille.”
“It’s not true! They drowned in a accident! Rose says –” My teeth were chattering.
“You know is shrew, Nicolath! What have I told you? Rose lies. Sweetenin’ you up wiz jam an’ bung-hole Bible stories knowing all along they ish a worm in your apple, son!”
“I –”
“What have I tol’ you? The worl’ ish evil, evil beyond the telling.” A hint of tenderness crept into his voice and it only added to my feeling of despair.
“My mother –”
“They drowned her! Yesh! I wash there! Watchin’. Couldna stopped them, Nini, had I tried. They wash feroshioush! Odille and Thomash – they’d been seen, see, out on the water. Old Cod seen it all in his —”
“Bi-knuckles?” I whispered the word I’d learned from Rose.
“Sure. Seen how Thomash strangled your papa, how he choked him before throwin’ him into the sea.” Toujours-Là put his two gnarled hands about his neck and squeezed, sticking out his tongue and making me cry out in terror. “An’ you sittin’ there like a little clod o’ clay, a little frozed seedling, bug-eyed, your mouth wide open juz like now!” He made another hideous face.
“Odille – she picked you up and held you tight. She wash shouting – the Cod could see that. And Thomash wash shouting, too. But the Devil knows what they wa’ shouting about. You could tell me if you recalled; but you was too little. Couldn’t talk after. Scared shitless, poor little bugger.”
It was all true. That day out on the water I had awakened to an immense absence.
“They wash a crowd down at the beash waiting for them. The wimmen swarmed about Odille . . . held to her like flies. An’ they pulled her down. She fought like a fury but they wash too many. Thomash wash harder to kill; he wa’ big aza bear. Big bones, big, broad back. Your papa’s body was never found.”
I was weeping. I tasted blood, I tasted salt. I loved, I hated Toujours-Là. Gagging on the words, I managed to ask: “Why? Why did she let him kill my father?”
“Odille loved Thomash.”
Arm in arm, light and darkness dance upon the water.
CHAPTER
11
The first Sunday of May, the Marquis, Rose, Totor, and I took the train inland to the riverside village of Paradis-sur-Loire, famous for its thermal station and an inn: á la Recherche du Paradis Terrestre. We left home early with a hot water bottle’s supply of black coffee wrapped snugly in a kitchen towel, and an outsize brioche. We ate our breakfast on our knees in the train as I counted station stops out loud and wondered about the origins of their curious names: La Folie, Ste Verge, Moisi. Rose had stories to tell and the unassuming stations, tidy and scruffy together as all things relating to railway landscapes, took on rich and variegated lives. Here an epileptic five year old had seen the Virgin Mary singing in an apple tree; here a notary had assassinated his entire family with a red-hot poker; here a monolith had toppled over and crushed a notorious thief; and here a man might see the face of his beloved blinking at the bottom of a well. Aristide said:
“You know how in fairy-tales a man sees his future lover reflected in his dreams? He carries her image like a precious jewel in his heart; he battles dragons and confronts entire armies, he survives imprisonment and humiliation at the hands of his enemies – and all this because he has seen her face. When at last they meet – and he must be man enough to recognize her even if she is caked in mud and wearing the skin of a donkey, or sleeping in a coffin of glass – the world comes sighing
to a halt. Love tumbles into the arid orbits of his life like a meteor.”
“And have you a sweetheart, Aristotle?” asked Rose.
“We met under curious circumstances,” he said. “She was wearing the skin of a donkey and I wasn’t man enough to recognize her until it was too late.”
Before the railroad, the way had been traced by colporteurs, men dealing in ready-made clothes and household stuff: pails, frying pans, and brooms; cheeses and walnut oil; coal and wine. As we flew along, flanked by flowering almond trees and heaps of coal, I saw – there where the railway ran parallel to the ancient road – a gypsy caravan and, further on, a knife and scissor sharpener straining above a well-travelled carrier tricycle.
We also hugged the river much of the way; the broad, vigorous Loire rushing seaward as we sped inland past goat pastures and thickets and hamlets all unfolding beneath a perfectly cloudless sky. The distance covered was not very great, but with the many station stops the sun was high overhead when we reached our destination. The only thing to spoil our pleasure was the hot water bottle which, Rose realized with a wail, she’d “have to trot about all day!” Gallantly, Totor took it from her, the Marquis from Totor, and I from the Marquis.
In high spirits we turned down a dirt road worried by spring rains and the wheels of carriages. I felt the stiff ridges crumble under my holiday shoes. We now saw the spa’s famous cupola shining silver beyond the trees and caught a glimpse of three graceful tiers of balconies. Designed by a famous architect, from afar the thermal station’s Grand Hotel looked like a cabin-cruiser. It was all freshly painted and glistened white in the golden weather. When I was to see it again it would be very changed, the façade hidden by creepers, the great roof in disrepair, the grounds a tangle of roots and thorny briars.
We walked on, and in a few minutes came to Paradis. We took to the village at once – the tile roofs the colour of toast, the pale-green, weather-worn shutters and the soft, flour-white stone of the façades stained purple by the iron hooks which held the zinc gutter-pipes in place. Here and there in little niches, saints and virgins mutely offered their protection. Rose, acquainted with their histories of hardships, and to Totor’s exasperation, greeted them cordially and expressed concern for their well-being.
As we crossed the village square we saw a brass band setting up in the kiosk and the proprietors of rival cafés lugging chairs and tables about beneath the new leaves of the linden trees in preparation for the afternoons entertainment. Somewhere nearby men were playing quilles. We could hear the sharp sound the splintered spheres made as they struck the wooden bodies of the pins.
A la Recherche du Paradis Terrestre stood at the end of a shady street. At its back, gardens overlooked a grassy slope which in turn overlooked the water. The inn was a humble affair, but lovely, with narcissi at every window, potted laurel at the entrance, and three cunningly pruned pear trees scaling the façade. The stone structure was completely concealed by blossoms and breathing a vapour of scallions browning in butter.
In a corner of the courtyard bottles were drying, necks down in a bored plank, which bridged the backs of two chairs. This homey touch and the kitchen smells provoked Rose’s whole-hearted approval. So too the menu, which, pinned in a box very like those street altars, included a pâté of crayfish and an omelette made with the sweet, spring buds of salsify.
How had the Marquis discovered such a place? We learned that he had worked for a time on a river barge delivering coal and lime to the village. He had seen the restaurant in this season and had vowed to return. I realize only now that he must have spent what small savings he had on that lunch.
The inn was run by two sisters. One paid the bills, scolded the waitresses, and charmed the clients; the other instructed the gardener, nagged the kitchen help, and cooked. She caught a glimpse of us from her kitchen window and, intuiting in Rose a kindred spirit, she called out:
“Say! Madame! Come see the trout ’fore they’re cooked. Still kicking in the tub! I’m preparing them with hazelnuts.”
Rose eagerly rushed past a pail of doomed crayfish and was swallowed head and body by the kitchen.
After a brief look at the garden, Totor, the Marquis, and I sat at our table in the sun and admired a menu written in an obsessive hand with purple ink scented of violets. I said:
“This menu reminds me of Charlie Dee.” But I could not say why. The near-summer air wafted in through the open windows, and, if I noticed that the serving girl – dressed in crisp, new cotton and not much more than twelve – was very pretty, I was even more captivated by a sideboard, sumptuous with sweets. Grown under glass, the first strawberries glowed in dishes of porcelain beside a pitcher of cream. An immense tart of last winter’s apples wept caramel. There was a pyramid of pears in brandy, and thin, fluted glasses of sabayon. Nothing rare here, no priceless, imported pineapples, but only seasonal things expressing plenty with art and love. I would have trouble deciding; fortunately, I would have plenty of time to choose.
Despite all that came after, I still remember that luncheon, the narcissi, the open windows, Totor and Rose holding hands under the table, the Marquis transforming the table-top into an impromptu theatre where dramas were acted out by butter shells and fish forks. I recall a spoonful of pepper transformed into a storm-cloud which threatened a painted Chinaman who, as the dish revolved, slipped under the cover of a napkin.
“. . . And he heard the hail!” said the Marquis, tapping his plate with his fingernail. “And he said, ‘How good it is to be in bed on such a night.’ ”
Totor told us about Atlantis, a hidden continent of Kings, so rich the streets glitter with gold nuggets; an enchanted land inhabited by creatures not animal nor human, but with the charms of each. Like centaurs, like sirens, like –
“La Vouivre!”
“Yes, Nini. Fish with the faces of women, their eyes pools of fire.”
“Their voices melodious,” said the Marquis.
“I should love to see Atlantis!” I exclaimed. “To see what no one has ever seen!”
“Once there were so few of us,” said Aristide, “there were unseen places the whole world-wide!”
“Are there such places still?” I asked.
“The tops of some mountains, maybe,” said Totor.
“The fundaments of troubical jungles,” said Rose.
“And Bottlenose!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps he –”
“Just give me a hearth,” said Rose, “a comfortable chair and a good, sharp knife for peeling potatoes –”
“For slitting throats!” I teased.
“Nicolas! Don’t start that up again! He’s got it into his head I’m some sort of aggression –”
“Ogress!”
“Rose – an ogress!” Totor roared with laughter.
“I’d rather voyage to the Holy Land with books,” said Rose, to my relief – for all at once this talk of Ogresses had brought to mind Toujours-Là’s recent revelations. “No buggage, no fevers, no accidents, no unsightly natives or customs like eating locusts, pah! No risk of capturing malaria or elephant-toes or losing one’s way –”
“Yes, but think of it!” I insisted shrilly. “To see what no one has seen!”
“To see the fountains of Neptune!” The Marquis mussed my hair.
“Why Neptune?” asked Rose. “Nini! Quiet down. Are you feverish?”
“Because it is so far away,” the Marquis explained. “So far it can’t even be seen with a telescope.”
“It would be lonely,” Rose persisted. “Nini’s ears are red.” She caressed my forehead.
“Maybe not!” said Aristide. “That’s what they said about the bottom of the sea: too cold for company. Too dark. And the pressure of the water like twenty locomotives pulling a full load of iron! But when they looked they found charming animals: diaphanous and beautiful –”
“Like lace!” said Totor.
“I bet the animals of Neptune are like that!” I was tremendously excited. “Di-aphanous, like the Marqu
is says, and charming!”
“But what do they eat?” Rose asked. “How can they possibly digest?”
“Perhaps they don’t,” said Aristide. Rose shuddered.
“Everything digests!” she said.
Our trouts arrived as gilded as kings with parsley ruffs, and sliced lemons for crowns. The potatoes were new and they were not any bigger than walnuts. Rose was very animated; she had two precious recipes anchored between her breasts – one for the sabayon and one for crayfish à la Turc. And the cook had told her a dreadful story:
“Oh, far too dreadful to repeat. And I wouldn’t want to ruin your lovely lunches! But a scandal, I assures you. Why, it’s set me all aflutter. I hardly taste the pâté – and no, I can’t let you in on it, well, maybe later. . . . To tell the truth my heart feels like a hen on a hot griddle!”
Just then I heard someone behind me say:
“I’ve blue feet!” Impatient with Rose’s coy mysteries, I turned and tried to get a look at the man who was talking, but all I could see was the back of his head.
“I can’t figure it out,” the stranger said. “You’d think it was –
“In pieces!” Rose threw her arms up in the air.
“A sort of –”
“Dead body!”
“Inside too! All the organs: BLUE! You should have seen me in a mirror! You would have said –”
“Her corpse!” Rose whispered.
“They stuck in so many needles, my arse was red!”
“You put a bucket down that well,” said Rose, “it came up red!”
“Blue!”
“And they still don’t know who did it!” Rose quivered with excitement.
As we ate, a burly grandfather clock kept track of the time ringing six times, at every hour and half-hour. I noticed that the mantel was decorated with a few porcelain figures, and thought of Toujours-Là and the demonic crockery he had once described. I thought of his turkey in the sack, and longed to tell the story.
The Fountains of Neptune (American Literature (Dalkey Archive)) Page 9