The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  Madame Clothoe appeared to be the most touched by her age. She had a way of stringing out a nod or an inane bit of conversation until directed by one of her companions. Her tiny eyes sparkled with glee from her crinkled face. Half the meaning of the conversation seemed to float past her, and she watched it go with her constant, oblivious smile.

  For all their refined cordiality, however, Jane sensed a more devious instinct coursing through their veins. It was a killer’s instinct, selected and trained in them and their caste, and, though the mellowness of age might cover it, it waited just beneath the skin. Jane enjoyed their company and conversation now, but she felt grateful that she had not met them in their younger days.

  As they continued to chat, Jane found herself once again scanning the ballroom for her mysterious friend. After several furtive glances toward the banquet table, she saw him standing in another corner, talking with a shorter man in simple dress. Something in her eyes must have given her away, for Lady Lachesse smiled knowingly.

  “My dear, I take it you have your own acquaintances at the gala tonight?”

  She blushed. “I recognize a few familiar faces, Lady.”

  Madame Attrop’s eyes narrowed with a fierce grin. “Is there anyone you would like to inquire about, Miss Lin?”

  Jane felt the heat rise faster in her face, but she sensed her resolve give way before she even opened her mouth. “Perhaps there is something you would deem worthy to tell me about Mr Roman Arnault.”

  Three pairs of eyebrows arched in unison as Jane pronounced his name, and the women erupted in delicate titters. Jane did not know whether to be amused or embarrassed. Madame Clothoe spoke first.

  “I must say, Miss Lin, you manage to make rather interesting acquaintances.”

  “To better answer your question, might I inquire as to how you met?” asked Lady Lachesse. Jane reviewed the incident of their first encounter, omitting the details of the overheard conversation. The ladies nodded with some kind of understanding, except for Madame Clothoe, who continued to nod at nothing in particular.

  “One might best describe him as a classic opportunist, the product of our bureaucracy system and of his own specific upbringing,” said Lady Lachesse.

  “What do you mean by that, my lady?”

  Lady Lachesse tilted her head toward Jane. “I mean, my dear, that when men and women of power need to accomplish certain ends, Roman Arnault can be relied upon to provide the means.”

  “Oh.” Jane’s brow creased. Surely the charming stranger she had met did not deserve such a sinister-sounding description. “Do you mean to say that–”

  “Mr Arnault and I do not run in the same circles,” Lady Lachesse said. “Not anymore. We have a limited acquaintanceship, so far be it from me to paint him as the boogeyman.”

  Madame Attrop cleared her throat a little too noisily.

  Jane eyed him again. “He looks like…” she paused, trying to think of an appropriate term “…a man of leisure.”

  “Not exactly,” said Madame Attrop.

  “He’s too cynical to be a playboy!” Madame Clothoe said, using the word that had originally occurred to Jane. Jane reached for a vial of sparkling wine as the waiter passed.

  “He’d have to have some fun for that,” Madame Attrop said. “As careless as he looks, Mr Arnault does nothing without calculating and doesn’t leave much room for anything else.” The other women pursed their lips sagaciously, and Madame Attrop continued. “But there’s more than that. People avoid him. Even disreputable women avoid him. There is something ominous about him, Miss Lin, like a hint of ruin. I would not propose to tell you what to do, but allow me to advise that you exercise caution.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” Jane said, finishing her drink.

  “One would almost call him a workaholic,” Lady Lachesse said, “were it not for that practiced air of carelessness.”

  “What exactly does he do?” asked Jane.

  Madame Attrop lifted her shoulders. “It is difficult to say with certainty what Mr Arnault does. But rest assured, he does it very well.”

  Lady Lachesse raised her own glass, holding it steady as she gazed around the ballroom. “He is an agent in the employ of the Council. His official title is ‘consultant’, whatever that may mean. More precisely, he is the hatchet man of the regime and, as Madame Attrop has assured you, brilliant at his job.” Jane nodded with feigned understanding as something inside her growled restlessly.

  So absorbed was she in conversation and contemplation that she was startled to hear a voice behind her purr, “My lady.” Turning, she beheld Roman Arnault, more familiar to her now through half-conscious and quickly banished daydreams than through real encounters. With a fluttering mixture of delight and chagrin, she smiled and greeted him. Her companions continued to look on through masks of polite neutrality.

  “Miss Lin, I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

  “I came with a reporter covering the event. A friend,” she added quickly.

  “Then I’m glad you did,” he said with a slow, spreading smile. “Would you like to dance?” he asked, looking toward the center of the white-marbled floor. Couples were already sailing across the ballroom in slow, stately waltzes. The faces of the dancers and, indeed, of nearly everyone in the room betrayed little emotion. Jane felt like she was surrounded by chiseled porcelain masks, painted and weaving amongst one another. The only features that betrayed a life were the eyes, which flitted and flared.

  Jane accepted Arnault’s offered hand, and they glided across the seamless tiles. Comfortable in the dance and coasting through the steps, he focused on her with the same combination of amusement and intensity that she had noticed at their first encounter. She found his naked gaze unnerving, but the tension dissipated once they began to talk.

  “So, Mr Arnault–”

  “Roman.”

  “This isn’t your first society event.”

  He grinned. “Unfortunately not.”

  “You seem to spend a lot of your time in the company of councilors and their like.”

  “Correct again. Not unlike yourself, I’d add.”

  “I’ve met Councilor Hollens once or twice. You drink with people like him and Councilor Ruthers. It’s different.”

  Roman frowned. “What gives you the impression that I know Councilor Ruthers so well?”

  “Well, you work with him. Or for him. Something like that, right?” Slowly turning around the ballroom, they coasted past the stage and the black-clad musicians.

  “That’s a close enough description of it.”

  Jane shrugged. “Anyway, you know your way around these crowds. What do you do?”

  “I do whatever the Council tells me to do, Jane.”

  “That sounds pretty vague.”

  His eyes drifted across the ballroom. “So is my mandate.” She grinned despite herself as they continued their dance in slow, sweeping circles. His expression was guarded, but not in the stiff, formal way of the other guests, she noticed as she watched him study the socialites and bureaucrats around them. A fellow outsider, she thought.

  “It seems,” she said, “that everyone here has secrets.”

  Roman’s eyes darted back to hers. “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve seen the way you watch everybody.”

  He smiled in defeat.

  “‘I knew the mass of men concealed

  Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed

  They would by other men be met

  With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;

  I knew they lived and moved

  Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest

  Of men, and alien to themselves – and yet

  The same heart beats in every human breast!’”

  Her face lighted with recognition. “‘The Buried Life’,” she said. “It’s from Matthew Arnold.”

  He cocked his head. “Impressive, especially for a laundress.”

  She colored and looked over his shoul
der at nothing in particular. “I’m an avid reader, Mr Arnault.”

  “Roman. And you’re quite an observer, too.” Jane bit her lip to avoid a nervous smile. His dark blue eyes positively bored into her now. “So tell me,” he said, “how does an orphaned laundress become a student of the poets?”

  She looked up, startled. “I never told you I was an orphan.”

  “You forget the extent of my connections.”

  Jane nodded, not certain whether she should be thrilled or alarmed. “Maybe it’s because I was an orphan. My parents died when I was two, and I spent as much of my childhood as I can remember surrounded by strange people and strange smells. The orphanage was miserable, and I was always looking for an excuse to spend time away from it. One day, when I was about seven, I found that excuse. One of the caretakers took a group of us to the Municipal Library – it’s right next to the Quadrivium.”

  “I know it,” Roman said. Located near the schools, it kept volumes upon volumes of books deemed safe for public consumption.

  “It was quiet as a tomb. I had never been any place before where the sound of my own breathing was loud. It was wonderful.” She paused, smiling at the recollection. “It gave me a reason to get away from the orphanage, so I applied for a special permit. Every afternoon after classes, I would leave for the Municipal Library and lose myself in the stacks and shelves until nightfall, when the custodian chased me out. It was orderly, peaceful, and with no one but the characters in the books to trouble me, I felt at home. Is that strange?”

  “No,” he said quietly.

  Emboldened, she continued. “I read whatever I could reach. Stories, poetry, even a bit of science. The library became my haven – whenever I wanted to be alone, I was. And when I needed company… all I had to do was open a book.”

  “An interesting way to make friends,” he said. Jane laughed.

  “You have no idea. Actually, that’s how I met Fredrick. In the library.” Jane looked for Freddie in the crowd and found him quickly, a drink precariously balanced in one hand while the other waved and chopped. He had joined a ring of bureaucrats and was talking with more than his usual animation.

  Roman squinted in his direction. “He doesn’t look like the bookish type.”

  “He’s not. But he buckles down when he needs to.” Even in the glowing ballroom, Jane could still see the crooked shelves and rickety writing tables, all coated with the stains and scars of years. “He’d just gotten a job at the paper, and he found my favorite reading nook. It became his, too, and he was there several times a week, sometimes reading, sometimes working on one of his articles. We started talking, and I guess we took to one another. His mother died when he was fourteen and he didn’t have much of a relationship with his father, so we saw eye to eye, if you understand what I mean.”

  “That’s how you became friends?” Roman tilted his head forward, as if surprised that it could be so simple.

  “There’s a bit more. When I turned seventeen, he helped me arrange an appeal before the Sponsorship Committee so that I could get a temporary housing stipend and a job. One that didn’t involve the factories.” Many orphans and unfortunates ended up working twelve-hour shifts on factory machines and assembly lines. The most anyone could say for it was that it was an honest paycheck, and that accident rates were the lowest they’d been in decades. “As a successful professional with a good record, he signed himself as my sponsor, and the committee gave me a grant to set up shop as an independent laundress. I didn’t have any money, and without him the most I could have hoped for was a maid’s position in one of the wealthy houses. More likely, though, I’d be a groundskeeper living in a bunkhouse.” Jane sighed, offering a small smile. “Freddie’s glib, but he’s a good friend.”

  Arnault nodded. “So it would seem.”

  “Now I’ve told you quite a bit about myself,” Jane said. “Earlier, though, yours wasn’t a real response – your lovely snatch of poetry. One would almost suspect that you have your own skeletons to hide.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re still thinking about that? Dear girl, there was nothing random about what I recited for you,” he said. “After all, it’s Victorian.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Matthew Arnold and his ilk, though who knows when they lived or what they produced beyond their poetry. Based on their writing, though, I can say that the Victorians knew a good deal about facades, though I would venture to say that we’ve learned more. It’s a poem about secrets.”

  Jane knitted her brows. “Really? I always thought it was about people trying to connect. To figure who they are in relation to those around them.”

  “A similar idea.” He leaned in. “Nothing is more defining than the things we choose to hide.” Jane’s eyes flitted to her fellow dancers, and she noticed that she and Roman seemed to have carved their own, private space out of the crowd. The other couples orbited at a safe distance.

  “And what is it you choose to hide?” Jane asked. Once again, Roman threw back his head and laughed.

  “Nothing gets by you, does it, Jane?”

  She responded with what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. “I still don’t understand exactly what it is you do with these people. You don’t seem to have much in common.”

  “That’s what makes our arrangement so simple. I don’t have the same ties or interests. As an outsider, I am the perfect… what would you say? Accessory.” He watched her nose wrinkle as she tried to make sense of his response. “That’s just precious.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me,” she said.

  “No?” He chuckled. “Perhaps not, but I can guess quite a lot. You’re just like the rest of them.”

  “The rest of who?”

  “The nice girls of the world who try to fit in with the rest of us. You put up a show, but there are some things you’ll never understand,” he breathed, brushing her ear. Refusing to be baited, she looked over his shoulder and continued dancing as if she had not heard him. Without warning, he threw his arm and spun her outward, and she had to concentrate to keep her balance. Preparing for the return, she counted the steps as he pulled her back, the light skirts of her dress swishing against his knees. Tightening his grip around her waist, he doubled their pace, and she watched his eyes in hopes of anticipating his next move.

  She didn’t.

  Without warning, he swept her legs out from under her, and she fought the urge to plant them back on the marble-tiled floor. Instead, she straightened her posture and trusted his lead, finishing the dip with a gamely kick. He held her barely a foot from the ground.

  “You’re bold but not too wise,” he said, looking down at her.

  “You don’t intimidate me, Roman.”

  “You don’t know enough to be intimidated.” He straightened and returned Jane to her feet.

  Jane brushed at her dress. “That’s the way you wanted it. You’re like the people in the poem. You get others to assume exactly you want because you only show them the tiniest part of yourself.”

  “For most people, that’s enough.”

  She returned his piercing stare. “I don’t care who the Council thinks you are, what it is you do as their enforcer, what the whitenails say about you, or why everyone else runs from you. You don’t frighten me, and, for all your fierce looks, you don’t have anything on me. Like you said, I’m an outsider.”

  He held her gaze in his own and smiled faintly. Slowly, he brushed her ear again and whispered. “I could show you who I am, what I do, and why they run. But will you like what you find?” His words lingered like an alcoholic aftertaste, and the lewdness stung her better judgment. She looked up at him as the song ended, and their dance slowed to a halt. His eyes, his whole face was motionless, and it was only as she felt a hand on her shoulder that she turned away.

  Fredrick blinked at her, dazed by drink and astonished at her company. “Jane, I was hoping you’d give me the next dance.”

  She turned back to Roman, who had regained
his sly smirk and cavalier posture. “It was a pleasure,” she said. He kissed the back of her hand, grinning roguishly.

  “Until we meet again.” Something respectful fixed his gaze to hers, and they parted as two equals after a truce. Fredrick watched him go and whirled back to face her with the same look of poorly hidden wonder.

  He hiccupped. “Some interesting friends you’ve made tonight.”

  “You knew we’d met already.”

  “Yes, the night you nearly got your head bashed in, but I wasn’t aware that you two were so… chummy!”

  She ignored him. “Come on, Freddie. You said you wanted to dance.” She held up an arm, waiting for him to assume the proper position. With a bemused shrug, he grasped her hand and they floated with the current of people.

  They danced to a peppery waltz, hopping spryly about the room. Fredrick maintained his uncharacteristic silence, at times avoiding her gaze and at others glancing at her with cockeyed suspicion. Jane avoided thinking about why he would be annoyed with her and turned to her own thoughts. She thought about Roman, about what her new whitenail friends thought about him, and, most importantly, about whether she was as naïve as he seemed to think.

  Fredrick spoke up. “Over there. Another friend of yours.” Jane turned and saw him staring at a woman in a shimmering silver and gray gown. Liesl Malone was hardly recognizable without her customary uniform, but the short, razor-like platinum locks; the hypnotic, pale eyes; and the statue-like expression set her apart. The slimming gown hugged the womanly curves that Jane was a little surprised to notice Malone did, in fact, have. Judging by his expression, Fredrick was noticing the same thing. Jane had never thought of her as being a woman in a dress, yet Malone blended in with the glamorous crowd. Somehow, this made her more intimidating.