The Unknown Huntsman

by Jean-Michel Fortier

  “I waited until she’d gone back to Angelina in the other room before going and sitting behind the counter. Finding her address book was child’s play; she’d left it right beside the telephone. I remember I stopped at the page my own number was on and saw that the idiot—God save her soul—had forgotten to change my address when I moved. I corrected it myself in red pen, out of principle and to teach her a lesson, even if she never called me except when her little monsters were causing her grief, never just to see how I was doing.

  “After that, I quickly flipped back to the C page to see if James’s number was there. And that’s when things got complicated.”

  Mrs. Latvia pauses a moment and clasps her hands together, as if in silent prayer to a God watching over us, just above. What she’s praying for we haven’t the faintest idea, but the baker immediately asks her if she will, pray tell, continue her story:

  “As I was saying, I was going through the Cs to prove that the mysterious caller was none other than James Campbell, Lisa’s brother-in-law. And just as I was about to find out, the salon door suddenly opened. Angelina and Lisa were chatting away in the other room, and with the noise of the hair dryer, they didn’t hear the bell ring as the door opened.

  “I looked up, and who should I see, staring at me with an accusing look? Who? Blanche Bedford!”

  We all turn as one to look at young Blanche, she who prides herself on never being part of the problem; only the solution. Well, that was quite a testimony from Mrs. Latvia, and now Blanche blushes. If you ask us, she knows only too well what the florist is about to reveal:

  “There’s no point staring at Blanche with your Lobster Thermidor eyes. She is of no importance, so don’t lend her any more than she deserves.

  “Back then, she wasn’t yet wed to Albert Miller, eligible young lady that she was. She came into the salon and asked me what I was doing sitting at Lisa Campbell’s desk. I told her I was helping Lisa with her paperwork, that the poor woman had plenty on her hands with her three boys, and that, in any case, it wasn’t carnation season yet. She nodded. I could tell she didn’t believe me, that she imagined I was rummaging through Lisa Campbell’s bills or her receipts for ammonia hair dye, so I had to fill her in.

  “I told her briefly about the phone call, the man’s name, the coincidence, the gist of it. And then, believe it or not, the dear child offered to help me in my search!

  “James Campbell’s name didn’t appear anywhere in the address book, but that didn’t stop Blanche; she left such a mess turning the dresser drawers inside out that I had to follow behind her and put everything back in its place.

  “Nothing! There was nothing there—Blanche can vouch for me—except receipts for hair dye and dozens of licorice candy wrappers, all carefully smoothed out and stacked in an old cigar box.

  “We were about to give up on the desk and sit back down in the waiting room, because we could hear Angelina White thanking Lisa Campbell and preparing to get up out of the chair, when Blanche spotted a crumpled piece of paper half hidden under the telephone, only one corner peeking out, as if to tease us.

  “Blanche was up in a flash and grabbed that paper! My friends, that’s what I call luck, because just as we were taking our seats again in the waiting room, Lisa Campbell came to greet us, all smiles and fresh curls, for our respective hair appointments.

  “‘Ahh, my most senior and junior customers! How touching to see you together, chatting like the best girlfriends in the village.’”

  We should clarify here: we stated earlier that Sybille is the oldest woman in the village, but Sybille has never set foot in the Campbell hair salon to have her hair done. As we said, her hair is in a constant state of humanitarian crisis, and could certainly use a good combing to put its internal affairs in order. But what do you expect when you choose to live like a savage, there are no half measures, let’s hear what else Mrs. Latvia has to say:

  “Lisa Campbell was wearing her figure- flattering, blue woolen dress, I remember because when she saw her in it, Blanche immediately began smoothing and adjusting her own outfit, whether out of jealousy or some hang-up, or simple female vanity, who knows.

  “I got up and made sure I beat Blanche to Lisa’s chair, after all I was there first, and in any case, who was to say whether young Blanche had actually come to get her hair done and not just to nose around looking for gossip.

  “You all knew the late Lisa: she had a voice that carried, sometimes gossip, often lewd remarks, whatever the case, it was a voice that carried. And when a voice like that squawks inches away from your eardrums, it’s enough to make you tune out altogether. The whole time she was doing my hair, I didn’t hear or see a thing of what was going on in the waiting room, thanks to Lisa Campbell’s chatter and the awkward angle of the mirror.

  “So imagine my surprise when I went to the counter to pay and saw that Blanche had disappeared without a word! Like a thief in the night, and taking with her the scrap of paper from under the phone! Lisa was no less surprised, but she surmised that Blanche must have worried the storm was picking up and that she’d be stuck at the salon all night. In any case, Lisa Campbell was never one to bother much about such things. As for me, I went out into the storm and since that day I haven’t had a chance to talk to Blanche Bedford alone. So, the mystery remains unsolved.”

  Mrs. Latvia catches her breath and sits down, clearly pleased with herself, her expression calm and serene, as it always is after recounting some juicy anecdote or other or delivering a big bouquet of gladioli. No more than two seconds pass before Angelina White blurts out:

  “What about the paper? What did it say? What did it say?”

  Coming from such a paragon of modesty and discretion, her reaction is somewhat surprising; no doubt she finds the florist’s tale titillating because, for once, she’s part of it. Mrs. Latvia throws up her hands:

  “I don’t know! I never saw that damned piece of paper again! Blanche Bedford kept it.”

  The entire room turns to face the young woman, who looks offended and keeps her gaze on the floor. The baker, never one to miss an opportunity, addresses her in his most inquisitorial tone:

  “Blanche, we are all waiting for an answer.”

  He’s obviously still angry at her for changing bread suppliers, but really, where else is she going to get her loaves now that she’s boycotting Leaven? Perhaps she’s got Albert Miller eating crackers—a tall order knowing how the young man likes his rolls crusty and warm—anyway, in the meantime, Blanche says nothing, while her husband stares at her in horror. Evidently, she never told him about the stolen paper, but the baker insists:

  “All I can say is this: once a thief, always a thief.”

  We raise our eyebrows. The baker is clearly referring to the breadlifting of which he was a victim, the Leaven Affair, as we’ve fondly dubbed it, he still hasn’t fully digested the whole thing, it’s left a hard ball in the pit of his stomach, like a lump of unleavened bread. Albert Miller stands up to have his say, a rare occasion indeed since his marriage to the opinionated Blanche:

  “Blanche did not steal your bread, Mr. Leaven, the entire council has accepted the fact: it was Sybille, because nobody else would have left a bowl of wild strawberries in return.”

  “Ahh! But strawberries can be picked, and bowls can be made!”

  Now he’s pushing it, Leaven! We whistle anxiously, what’s going to happen now?

  “Mr. Leaven, you are forgetting that the real snoop here is Mrs. Latvia. She’s the one who mixed Blanche up in this whole James story. Why couldn’t it have been her who stole your bread, too, while casting the blame on Sybille?”

  “Because she’s a little old lady!”

  If there’s one thing the florist can’t stand, it’s being reminded of her venerable age, so out comes the hankie again, and she sniffles and snuffles for a time. Cantarini, who’s still beside her rubbing her back, suddenly jumps
up and pours forth:

  “What if this whole story about James and the telephone had something to do with the unknown huntsman and the death of Lisa Campbell?”

  Goodness, what progress old Cantarini has made! Give him another few months and we’re willing to bet he’ll be fully functional, but for now Father Wavery has chosen this critical moment to raise his hands, his palms towards the heavens:

  “My children, we won’t get to the bottom of the story this evening. It’s obvious the cards of Providence are all mixed up. Let’s sleep on this and consider it again with fresh eyes. It’s getting late and there’s a storm brewing.”

  There he goes again with his confounded habit of cutting our meetings short! If we had the baker’s gumption, we would protest, but instead we lower our head and leave the hall, disbelieving and troubled. What with all that, the baker’s irritation, and Father Wavery’s orders, Blanche never did tell us what happened to the scrap of paper.

  10

  The professor appears before us at the meeting. He’s looking perplexed, and we’re not sure whether that’s a good or bad sign. Who can fathom the expression of a god?

  This week, our gathering stretches all the way to the staircase leading up to the sacristy; it seems some of our members who have been absent recently have decided to pick up their good habits again, among them the parents of the ailing girl. The Professor gives us a brief nod and begins:

  “My children, this has been another week of surprising revelations. Will it never end? Will we ever return to the peace and quiet of previous years of petty crime?”

  That’s the burning question that’s been haunting us for the past month, and now the Professor is asking us as if we knew the answer, as if we could possibly know better than him—if we had a crystal ball, perhaps, but just like that, on the spot, impossible!

  “The woman who agreed to care for the children of the hairdresser who died two weeks ago has abandoned her burden, forcing one of our members—one of our youngest members, in fact—to step in.”

  It’s true, the young woman so devoted to the cause and to the proper education of three future members—what a model of altruism! The very same young woman who provided Sybille with an alibi, clearing her name in the burglary she was accused of. A member with great promise indeed. The Professor clasps his hands together—he looks almost humble—and says:

  “There are two things I’d like to do. First, congratulate this member—Yes, you!—the young girl who adopted the orphans.”

  And she deserves it, the brave child. We clap modestly: the Professor doesn’t like it when we praise someone other than him. She lowers her eyes and blushes. He continues:

  “But I also want to warn you.”

  His gaze hardens. He raises his hand in the girl’s direction, and we all know from experience that it’s not so he can shower her with candy. He points his index finger at her and cautions:

  “You did a good thing. ONE good thing. But don’t let it go to your head. In here it’s the Professor who calls the shots. He’s the one who makes the rules and writes the laws. In future, before you go taking any initiative whatsoever, you ask my permission first.”

  What joy, what good fortune for the young girl! To have the Professor acknowledge her courage must fill her, her parents, her husband with such pride! But still, she’d better mind herself now. If she goes against the Professor’s will she could face the same fate as that poor snoop who died accidentally three weeks ago.

  After delivering his warning, the Professor gives the floor over to our fellow members whose child is recovering from an infection, though, as they tell us, she doesn’t actually appear to be on the mend.

  “Our sweet little darling is having a very difficult time of it, Professor, a terrible time. If it gets any worse, she’ll have to have her entire head amputated, with all the pus it’s oozing. The pain is one thing, but she has to endure the humiliation too. Even Sybille expressed her disgust the other day. And if my daughter is to be held in contempt by someone like Sybille, I’d almost rather see her dead. It’s such an ordeal, I assure you!”

  It’s the mother who has spoken. She doesn’t seem to blame our leader and, anyway, the young girl will look back fondly on her ordeal later—she’ll probably even be awarded a municipal medal once she’s better. The Professor’s lips tremble and tears well in his eyes. He looks like he’s on the verge of hugging the parents. But he says nothing, and we can tell he’s tormented by his decision, by his failure, and so is the doctor. We wish we could share their suffering, ease it, lessen it, but the best we can do is shed a few tears in empathy, and in the face of the Professor’s sadness, our faith in life evaporates.

  Once he regains his composure, our leader sends us home for a melancholy night. He motions to the courageous young girl and takes her aside. As we leave the hall we hear him ask her:

  “That piece of paper the old woman was talking about, what did you do with it?”

  11

  We’re not sure how best to describe this past week. Those more educated than us would no doubt call it Kafkaesque; all we can say is that it was one of anguish—anguish and politics—because the baker had half the village sign a petition to force the young Bedford girl to reveal the contents of the scrap of paper at tonight’s meeting. We say “half the village” because even if the baker had wanted to get Sybille to sign it, she likely wouldn’t have—and anyway, we’ve never seen any proof that she knows how to read or write, or that she even has her own opinions—and if you don’t count the children; the priest and the mayor, who are supposed to remain impartial; Blanche herself; and Albert, who abstained for fear of being subjected to years of matrimonial drought, that makes nearly half, if we’ve counted right: half of the villagers signed that damned petition—God save our souls!

  This evening in the church basement, we’re burning with impatience as we wait for Blanche, who’s late—it’s not like her to be late—but we would have been late too, if we were in her shoes. Latvia the florist holds her head high, scornfully eyeing the baker who clutches, crumpled in his floury hands, the Petition—that’s how he refers to his project—Petition with a capital P if you please, it’s a wonder he hasn’t had it blessed by Father Wavery. Blanche must still be powdering her nose or whatever it is that women do at times like this. Call it the revenge of the young virgin.

  At last! We hear footsteps on the stairs, our necks swivel as one, like bolts being unscrewed a turn, and a head pops into the room, a head that doesn’t belong to Blanche Bedford.

  It’s the eldest Campbell boy.

  He comes down the stairs, one foot then the other on each step, like a baby, it’s obvious with the death of his mother he’s regressed at least five years, his big brown curls tumbling over his eyes. Mrs. Latvia shoots out of her chair:

  “Samuel! Samuel Campbell, what are you doing here? What did I tell you? That Blanche is too young to take care of such a disturbed child. When I think that I sent her a basket of geraniums to thank her, now I regret it; if I’d known, I’d have sent her a bunch of lily of the valley!”

  Mrs. Latvia abhors lily of the valley.

  The Campbell boy lowers his head and looks at us like in one of those stories where the child has the soul of an adult and the mind of an assassin in the body of a youth, and even the florist cuts short her complaint, it’s enough to give you nightmares, those eyes as dark as the well at the end of St. Andrew’s Street.

  He walks to the middle of the room, the soles of his muddy boots squeaking on the floor tiles—it must be raining out, it’s a good thing we shut the windows before we left.

  When he gets to Mrs. Latvia’s chair, the Campbell boy grabs his head with both hands.

  “You see! That’s all he does, clutch his noggin and moan, and you haven’t seen him spit in my face yet!”

  But he doesn’t spit. He winds his fingers through his brown baby locks, tight as ca
n be, and pulls, pulls, screams, and pulls some more. Mrs. Latvia’s eyes widen:

  “Well, that’s new!”

  He tears out his hair in great fistfuls, his wrists taut and white from the effort, as brown curls pile up on the floor, and the baker grabs the Campbell boy and locks him in his grip. Angelina White appears to be getting her money’s worth and looks like she’s on the verge of fishing a butterscotch out of her purse, as if she were at the movies, only under the circumstances it would be improper.

  “Samuel Campbell, listen to Latvia, listen to your Latvia!”

  The child sobs silently, his hair strewn about the floor, someone’s going to have to sweep it all up. If his late mother the hairdresser could see the mess and the state of her son’s scalp, she’d turn seven times in her grave before saying a word, we swear she would.

  Mrs. Latvia sits him on a chair and kneels before him:

  “Did you come here alone, Samuel Campbell? Where is Blanche Bedford?”

  The strange child says nothing, and from our viewpoint, we can only see his back, but he seems to be showing something to the florist, and she stands up, as white as a funeral wreath.

  The baker grimaces and shouts out:

  “Where is that Bedford girl? Why is she afraid to show herself here? Why did she send the child?”

  Mrs. Latvia, her face as pale as if she’d just seen one of her holy visions, shouts:

  “Quiet!”

  We jump. Despite her venerable age and her wrath, the florist has never displayed such impoliteness, and why is she so pale, what did the Campbell child show her? Mr. Leaven steps forward and takes the boy by the arm, then lets him go just as quickly, a mystified look on his face, one we’ve never seen on him before:

  “What’s that on his sleeve?”

  We can’t contain ourselves any longer; we get up and walk toward the Campbell boy. If they won’t tell us, we’ll just have to see for ourself what has them looking so dazed, we take Samuel’s arm and ahhh! his sleeve!