by S L Zammit
Listening to his piteous voice, Aurora still lying on the floor of the cave, is ready to confess. Admit that she has the box in her possession and that he was right so many years ago. He had indeed come close to reacquiring what he had given up, but for some reason she had not been able to part with the gold box Tony had stolen.
But just as she’s about to reveal her guilt, she notices something strange, the image freezing the words on her lips. A curious form, like a cocoon, hangs inside one of the wings of the headless creature, veiled in the shadows of the open sarcophagus.
Wondering how she hadn’t noticed it before, she slowly sits up and then stands, and realizes that the curious thing is obscured in the shadows when one looks inside the tomb from a standing position.
Moving closer, as if in a trance, Aurora studies the hanging form. She makes out a veiled human shape in the shadows, wrapped in cloth like a mummy, the body entirely woven over and across with silky thread.
“What is that thing?” she asks, horrified of what the answer might be.
“Please don’t be shocked,” says Andras gently. “It looks much worse than it actually is. She’s safe in there.”
“Are you trying to tell me that that thing is Graziella?” whispers Aurora, hardly recognizing her own voice. “Is she still alive? What have you done to her?”
“Stay calm my dear,” says Andras. “Don’t overreact.”
“Don’t you patronize me,” yells Aurora, blood rushing to her cheeks. “Get her out of there this instant.”
“She went through a massive mental and physical shock my dear,” he says calmly, “an episode equivalent to death. She needs time to regenerate.”
“You’re insane,” screams Aurora, suddenly glad she hasn’t revealed anything about the box. “You’re a raving lunatic! I don’t believe a word you say. You know what I think,” her bulging eyes burning into his, the veins in her neck throbbing and standing out like thick blue slugs, “I think you’re a privileged, self-centered jerk who thinks the whole universe revolves around him.”
“Calm down my dear,” he says, his voice testy.
“Stop telling me to calm down,” she yells, “and I’m not your dear.”
“I think you need to leave,” says Andras, his eyes more green than blue, his pupils contracted to a pinpoint.
“Not without Graziella,” she screams. “I saved you when you were in that tunnel. You said so yourself! Now I’m thinking I should have left you there. This is the time to repay my kindness. I need you to release Graziella immediately.”
“I can’t,” he says, his voice is soft and angry. “Without her I have nothing. She needs me too. We were meant to be together. Just trust me on this. I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t care,” shouts Aurora, her voice booming around the cave. Regarding him through bulging eyes, she wonders what kind of beast would possess and abduct an innocent, unsuspecting woman and swaddle her like a cocoon, with no regard for her basic human rights, for the sole purpose of alleviating his own misery. “You need to let her go. Graziella is innocent and sweet, and has every right to live her life to the full. You had no right to seduce her, and you have no right to mold her into something she’s not. She’s Graziella, not some woman who lived five centuries ago.”
“That’s enough now,” he says, his face dark and scary. “You need to leave.”
Closing the sarcophagus, he walks towards her, his hulking frame menacing as he towers over her. “Let’s go,” he says, grabbing her by the arm.
“Is she breathing?” continues Aurora as he drags her by the arm out of the space towards the spiral staircase. “How can she breathe in there?”
Andras ignores her questions and proceeds up the steps moving her along. His face is dark with anger, his mouth pursed into a thin line.
“You just need to let her go,” pleads Aurora turning to face him. “Just let her forget about you and resume her life. You have no right to do this to her.”
Andras is taciturn as he bounds up the spiral staircase, his grip on her arm tight, her feet not touching the ground as he springs forward hauling her with him. Aurora feels the anger well up in her chest.
“You’re mental,” she yells. “I’ve had court cases involving people like you who think their existence is more important than everybody else’s. You think everything revolves around you and your cause. All these women are just insignificant pawns in this crazy game of yours. You’re a sociopath, that’s what you are!”
“That’s rich coming from you,” he says finally, his hand tightening further around her, shooting pain up and down her arm.
Finally arriving at the front door, he unfastens the lock with his free arm and shoves her out into the street.
“Wait,” she says, just as he’s about to shut the door in her face, her voice hoarse. “Wait.”
Andras glares at her expectantly from the top of the steps. And she’s about to tell him about the box she knows he needs so badly, and the book that’s rightfully his, and she’s just about to strike a deal with him for Graziella’s release.
But although she has felt that intolerable arid place he’s doomed to, and although the image of Graziella swaddled in cloth is burning in her mind, she can’t bring herself to say a word.
Stepping inside, Andras slams the front door angrily and fastens the lock.
Chapter 19
Confessions of a Lover Scorned
The room is all white. The different textures tastefully blended like a landscape in the aftermath of a snowstorm, furry floor and silk-buttoned wall, grand stone fireplace and velvet loveseat, French upholstered bed, white nightstands, cabinets and dresser. An amalgam of bleached and frosted wealth.
Nested within her cushioned fortress, Dame Esmie sits like a wedding-cake topper, her nose reddened, her sentences riveted with sobs. Her hair is wrapped in an Hermès scarf, the only splash of color in the room. Aurora tries to block images of the judge’s doughy body in that bed.
Come see me my dear.
I feel so unwell.
I need you my dear.
Esmie’s texts had gone unanswered all afternoon the day before, until finally Joe had decided to call Aurora at the crack of dawn. “Come see her before you go to the office, she needs you. Tried feeding her some soup, she won’t eat. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She opens up to you. You two have always had a special connection.”
Maybe she wants me to ward off someone else. Rich people and their rich people problems. Aurora sighs.
“I don’t even have the will to climb out of bed,” whimpers Esmie, dramatically blowing her nose.
But there’s nothing to blow, and all Aurora can see is a big, hairy moth boring its way out of a cocoon.
Moth.
The image has haunted her all night, and the only word on her mind for the past endless hours, has been moth. She can find no plausible explanation in her head for last night’s happenings: hellhounds and spiraling stairs leading to ancient sarcophagi, that big hulking womanizer and his arid plain, and a giant moth.
“Would you like some coffee dear?” asks Esmie. “You seem absent-minded and look so tired.”
Let’s see, in the past forty-eight hours, I broke into someone’s shop in the dead of night, caused a man to die, met a black-eyed creep who claims to be my father, found out that my mother is a prostitute and discovered that my best friend is confined in a cocoon, like a moth. So yes, I guess it’s possible that I look a little tired. Aurora sighs as she walks to an elegant antique table and pours herself some coffee. She’s almost surprised the stuff pours out black.
“Is that an Herve Leger dress dear?” asks Dame Esmie distracted from her misery. “You wear dresses so well. I was supposed to fly to Paris with Joe tomorrow, and while he’s at his convention meet with Philip. You remember Philip dear, the French stylist? He said he has some new stuff for me to see, rounded up some great pieces,” she sounds wistful, “but everything’s blown, I just can’t go.”
Now Aurora’s interest is peaked.
“Tell me what’s bothering you,” she asks sweetly. “Sometimes all a woman needs is to talk.”
“I can’t talk about this,” whimpers Esmie. “It’s too embarrassing. I feel so used and stupid.”
“We’ve all been there,” says Aurora softly, “talking helps. Isolating yourself with your thoughts will just make the problem evolve in your head, until it becomes this big black thing, and it will consume you.”
“I feel like I can’t trust anyone with this,” says Esmie piteously.
“You gave me the opportunity of a lifetime just out of law school,” coaxes Aurora, sitting at the edge of the bed, holding onto Esmie’s tissue-free hand. “You put me on a career track that tops my wildest dreams. I just want to do everything and anything I can to help you. And that will always be my main aim.”
A single tear slips out of the corner of Esmie’s eye and slides down her perfectly contoured cheek, Aurora reaches up and gently wipes it off with her thumb.
“I just wish I could take away whatever’s making you so sad,” says Aurora in her velvet voice.
“Thinking back, maybe I should have read the signs,” Esmie whispers.
“Sometimes things happen, and it’s too hard to control them,” says Aurora. “Things bigger than we are, just propel us uncontrollably down a certain path. You can’t be so hard on yourself over every little thing.”
“You wouldn’t tell anyone, would you my dear?” asks Dame Esmie facing Aurora, gray eyes wandering into dark blue, with the expression of one wishing to spill the beans.
Aurora shakes her head vehemently. “Why would I ever?” Her voice trembles with sincerity.
“Remember Italy?” Dame Esmie squeezes Aurora’s hand in hers. “The meeting with that refugee, the old Egyptian archeologist. That’s what he wanted from me all along. That key.”
Aurora knows exactly who and what she’s talking about and tries hard not to let the revulsion show on her face. At least you’re here in your comfortable bedroom, breathing and speaking. You’re not cocooned. You’re not a moth. Moth.
Although, truth be told, Esmeralda Montfort is also the victim of an abduction and cocooning of sorts. Aurora, being fully aware of the judge’s roving eye, isn’t completely sure that Esmie’s, and every married woman’s situation for that matter, is all that different than Graziella’s. She feels her dislike and distrust of men-in-general intensify considerably.
“Andras definitely has a way with women. He’d sit with me and talk for hours, but the way he’d listen made me feel like I’d never been listened to before. And when I wasn’t around him, I felt like a warm, shining light had been smothered,” whimpers Esmie. “And I kept going back for more until he wouldn’t see me anymore. I’d heard about all the others. I should have known better. But the way he’d make love to me for hours on end, like he couldn’t get enough of my body. I don’t know, maybe I thought I was special.”
Aurora shakes off a very vivid image of Andras in the throes of making love to the dame for hours and suppresses a mischievous chuckle. Definitely an improvement over the judge’s doughy body and at least you’re not a moth.
“These things happen to the best of us,” she says reassuringly. “You’re going to be all right. You’re a good woman and your good deeds touch the lives of many. This is just a small slip, a minute lapse in judgment. You can get right back on the mend,” and at least you’re not in a cocoon.
“He’s so beautiful, I couldn’t resist him. And now he possesses my thoughts,” whines Esmie. “Try as I may, I can’t shake him off.”
“Of course you can!” cries Aurora. “The first thing you need to do is leave this bed. And of course you need to go to Paris and see Philip. That’s exactly what you need to lift your spirits.”
“I went to the house in the middle of the night and that girl opened the door and shut me out into the street,” wails Esmie. “The way she was looking at me. Like she knew. Like they had been making fun of me together. I can’t go with Joe. I’m too ashamed.”
“Nonsense!” says Aurora firmly. “This is just what you need, to get away, to forget and rebuild. Nowhere could be better than Paris to rekindle a romance with your husband.”
“But not after the things I did,” starts Esmie.
“I’ll be there with you,” interjects Aurora promptly, stemming the flow of lurid detail the woman seems eager to share. “You won’t be alone, I’ll be your buffer. It will be fun I promise, and you need this right now.”
“You’re probably right,” says Esmie finally, blowing her nose again. “Thanks Aurora. You’ve always been like a beautiful angel sent from heaven, my pillar of strength in the storm. I love you like the daughter I never had.”
Second time someone said they loved me like a daughter in the last couple of days, and finally I’m going to meet the real deal. No shortage of mothers, but hopefully the biological one will help make sense of things.
“I love you too,” says Aurora. “Now I have to get to the office. I have lots of work to finish before we’re off to Paris.”
Dame Esmie seems taken by the idea and finally finds the will to climb out of bed.
“You should eat something,” coaxes Aurora smiling, “and shower, and make yourself look really pretty, and let’s go have some fun.”
“Thanks my dear,” says Esmie as she walks her to the door of the bedroom. “I’ll get you the plane ticket and a hotel room, will help get my mind off things.”
When Aurora finally leaves the house it’s almost eleven AM.
“Idiots,” she whispers as she steps into her car. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
Chapter 20
Quartier Pigalle
1
Philip’s stylish apartment on Avenue Montagne, in Paris’ coveted 8th district, has been recently remodeled. Aurora follows as the impeccably-dressed elfin man excitedly walks Esmie through his pristine capsule, pointing out his new floors and crown molding, the marble from Italy and the rugs from the Middle East, the top-of-the-line chef’s kitchen that will never be used, the sinks, hand delivered from Spain, the outcome of all these borrowed pieces looking as Parisian as Paris itself, the small stitched-in details exuding the exacting selective adeptness of a man in his métier.
Having a thorough knowledge of Esmie’s likes and personality, Philip has saved her hours of shopping-time and unnecessary walking around in the multinational crowds swarming the horse-chestnut-lined street outside, and more importantly, needless interactions with boutique sales people.
The two women sit in silk upholstered, designer chairs before a spread of foods displayed for visual purposes only: miniscule balls of pain au chocolat and tiny croissants, colorful baby macarons, minute buerre-sucre crepes and petite mille-feuilles. They sip black coffee as Philip and his assistant roll in racks of day clothes, evening gowns, shoes and stacks of other accessories from all the major fashion houses, as well as some smaller boutiques, for Esmie’s delectation.
Aurora sits quietly in her chair as Esmie tries on various outfits, periodically remembering to voice approval and enthusiasm, but her head is simply not there, the unbelievable events of the last few days spinning through her mind.
Graziella had always fantasized about a carefree visit to glamorous Paris, simply getting lost in the streets around the Seine, taking in the sights, tastes and sounds of the city. Aurora can almost hear her voice. And the thought of her in that sarcophagus, swaddled in cloth, lays heavy on Aurora. Having gone through the image in her head many times over the past hours, she still can’t find a plausible explanation for the situation. She fights hard to suppress an overwhelming and very unusual desire to cry when Philip pulls out a red Versace cocktail dress very similar to the cutout one Graziella had bought in Rome.
“And how about this for you mademoiselle?” he asks.
“Oh no,” she says, startled out of her thoughts. “Not today.”
“Maybe I should try it,” interjects Esmie.
“What do you think Aurora dear?”
“I bet it would look great on you,” she says, not pouncing on the opportunity to score paid-for, high-end swag for the first time in her life.
Much to Aurora’s relief, Esmie’s mood has improved drastically over the past twenty-four hours, which will hopefully make her planned excuse at dinner go over easier.
Inquiries into the address Zia Marie had texted her, reveal that her biological mother’s last known residence was somewhere around the 18th district of Paris, the neighborhood of Montmartre, home to many notable artists in the Belle Époque, now a tourist lure, known for the basilica of the Sacré-Cœur with its surrounding restaurants and nightclubs, and the red light district, Pigalle.
Aurora’s plan is to excuse herself halfway through dinner, and unbeknown to Esmie, take a taxicab to the address. Her idea is to confront her mother regarding the identity of the black-eyed man and return to the palazzo to free Graziella as soon as she steps foot back on Malta.
Having seen Andras in action, and persuaded of his obsession with the idea of Isabella, she’s convinced that Graziella is as safe as she can possibly be at the moment. Nevertheless, to abate her anxiety, she keeps asserting to herself that surely Andras, in the clutches of such a desperate infatuation with her, couldn’t possibly hurt Graziella.
Graziella is undoubtedly alive; the thought that she might be dead is obliterated from Aurora’s mind. Although whatever was in that sarcophagus did not appear to be alive at all, she persistently forces herself not to dwell upon the details of that horrendous image. Deep down, she just knows Graziella is alive.
Shortly after leaving Dame Esmie’s house, Zia Marie had texted her: Still no news of Graziella! I’m worried. Did you talk to her?
Everything’s okay, Aurora texted back, busy at work. Have to take short trip to Paris with Montforts. We’ll talk later.
The man claiming to be her father had somehow known about the book and the gold box in her possession, both items belonging to Andras and being sought by him. Yet, she was ardently advised not to part with them. Although seeing Graziella in that crypt had been shocking, and while aware of the huge bargaining power of the two items in her possession, she had decided not to mention them to Andras until she is equipped with more information.