Next, After Lucifer

by Daniel Rhodes

  Unpinned, that hair would fall below her waist.

  Boudrie turned savagely from the memory, from the portrait that seemed to mock him. Devarre looked at him with a glint of interest, but said nothing. The disheveled grayhaired form on the bed moved only occasionally, tossing in a way that suggested bad dreams. Mme. Durtal opened the heavy drapes on the two windows that gave onto the courtyard. The gray light only seemed to make the chamber gloomier.

  Devarre took out a stethoscope and reached under the covers. He took the pulse, checked blood pressure, began to shake down a thermometer. “She has eaten?”

  “A little broth yesterday. Mostly she sleeps.”

  They waited in silence until Devarre withdrew the thermometer from her mouth, tightly compressed even in sleep. He exhaled, looking perplexed and a little angry. “Normal.”

  “Then she’s improving,” Mme. Durtal said, relieved.

  Devarre did not reply. He began to repack his bag.

  It was his turn, Boudrie knew. That there was a proper procedure for caring for the semicomatose, he was aware, but it escaped him. He opened his breviary, paged through blindly. Devarre stepped back and watched in silence, hands folded before him. Mme. Durtal knelt, adding embarrassment to Boudrie’s burden.

  “Hail, Holy Queen!” he read. “Mother of Mercy! Hail!” His voice was too strong for the little room. He dropped it to a whisper. “To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears . . .”

  He finished hastily, then uncapped the vial of holy water and lightly crossed her forehead—a gesture terrifying in its ineffectualness. But what else could he do?

  Abruptly, he found that he was looking into her open eyes. At first they stared through him, but gradually they cleared and focused.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur.” Her voice was a thin, reedy whisper, eerily disembodied in the twilit room. “Am I dying?” Boudrie forced his face into a semblance of a smile. “No, Amalie. Monsieur Devarre says you’re fine. You just need to sleep.”

  She smiled back faindy and nodded. Her eyelids flickered. “That’s all I seem to do.”

  For half a minute no one spoke. She appeared to have dropped back into slumber. Boudrie was about to step away when the whisper came again. “Monsieur le cure?”

  He reached for her hand and held it between both of his. It was warm, dry, without substance—like a fragile bird. He leaned close until his ear was near her lips.

  “Do you miss her as much as I do?”

  Stunned, Boudrie stared at her still-closed eyes, his jaw sagging stupidly. Had she said what he thought? The words had been barely audible. Neither Devarre nor Mme. Durtal seemed to have caught them, or at least their import. But the realization hit him like a weight slamming into his chest: When he had crept into this very house at night, making love to Celeste while her sister, Amalie, slept—or so they had supposed—how had he allowed himself to believe that she was ignorant of what was going on? Did she know, had she known all these years? And about Alysse . . . ?

  Her hand had relaxed. He stroked it, let it go, and backed away, almost stumbling over Mme. Durtal in his anxiety to get out of the room.

  “You see, she’s better,” the woman said excitedly, following him down the stairs. “Now I will make tea.” She hurried to the kitchen. Boudrie longed to stop her, to insist that they must leave; but he reminded himself unhappily of his duty.

  Devarre’s face was wry. “You are close to her?” he said.

  Boudrie hesitated; but there was no way Devarre could know, even if he had heard. “To her sister,” he mumbled. “Long ago.”

  “Alysse has been helping my wife around the house, until this. Melusine misses her already. A surrogate daughter, I suppose.”

  Boudrie nodded stupidly, without words.

  “Unpleasant, isn’t it?” Devarre said. “I always thought the job of visiting the sick could not be worse than for a physician. Now I see that I’m only expected to heal them, or at worst pronounce them dead—not share their grief.”

  “It goes better when something stronger than tea is offered afterward. But I don’t mean to keep you. If you have another engagement—”

  “Not at all. It’s too late to abandon you anyway.” Relieved, Boudrie settled back to wait. After what seemed like hours, Mme. Durtal emerged with a tray of tea and lemon-flavored cakes. Dutifully they sat, sipping and listening to her chatter, which verged on the desperate. Her husband had not wanted her to come, even though he knew perfectly well that there was no one else to take care of Amalie. Poor Alysse, already working all day, and now coming home to an invalid at night—only seventeen, hardly more than a child.

  As if Mme. Durtal’s speech were a hailstorm of tiny blows, Boudrie lowered his face closer to his teacup. Another long time passed before his watch registered the obligatory polite interval. The woman’s face fell when the two men rose.

  “I can’t understand where that girl is,” she said as they stepped out the door. “She should tell you how those Americans live. The wines, and the finest cuts of meat each night.” Her little eyes were bright, her voice gathering momentum like a train leaving a station. “And a swimming pool, when the rest of us hardly dare to bathe—”

  Devarre coughed into his hand.

  “With regret,” Boudrie said loudly, overriding the squirrel-like chatter, “we must leave you to your supper. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  Deflated, she said, “You’ll come again soon?”

  They assured her they would.

  Beside the car, the two men paused. Night had come early with the clouds. Boudrie cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about your fee. There’s a little extra money allotted by the parish—”

  “Don’t talk foolishness,” Devarre said curtly. “Besides, you can see I’m of no use.”

  “Hardly true. But fortunately for me, I’m spared such certainty.” He searched for a delicate phrasing. “Then it’s not a fever?”

  Devarre gazed past him toward the lights of the main street. “That it should baffle me is not so strange. I’m an internist, and an indifferent one.”

  To be sure, Boudrie thought; that explained the halfdozen framed awards on Devarre’s office walls.

  “But yes, it’s very odd. Outwardly she shows the symptoms of fever—sleeping, not eating, and so on. But her temperature is normal, her pulse rate and blood pressure both a little down, but acceptable. I’m just hoping it’s not something truly serious—meningitis, or some obscure disease only a specialist would recognize. It started off seeming so harmless. She really should go to the hospital. Perhaps the neurosurgeons . . .”

  “If she gets any worse,” Boudrie said. “You have my word. We’ll find the money somewhere.” For a moment they stood in silence. Then he said, “Well, I don’t suppose you’d care to join me for a drink.”

  “Another time, thanks. I think what I need is a walk home to clear my head.”

  “A better idea,” Boudrie agreed.

  “Tell me: Mademoiselle Perrin cooked for you, did she not?”

  “Two or three times a week she would make something extra and drop it by. I was able to pay her a little.”

  “And now?”

  Boudrie shrugged. “I’m not so helpless. I’ve been a bachelor many years.”

  “Melusine’s been wanting to have you over, but is too shy. This is the perfect excuse. I’ll talk to her and give you a call.” They shook hands. In the deep dusk, Devarre’s shape became indistinct after a few steps.

  Boudrie lingered beside the car, telling himself he was savoring the crisp air, the first touch of autumn. But in truth, he was reluctant to go home to the lonely rectory—and spend the rest of the evening, and probably the next several besides, pondering obsessively the implications of la Perrin's words. Then he heard approaching footsteps.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur le cure,” Alysse called. It simply never stops, Boudrie thought, but his heart swelled as always at the sight of her. Cradling a net sack of groceries, s
he bobbed her head and bent slightly at the knee—her way of greeting him since she was a child, as if she were going to genuflect. It touched him and annoyed him in about equal parts.

  “Bonsoir, Alysse. It’s late. I fear you have an angry cousin at home.”

  “I took a walk by the river.”

  “Thinking great thoughts?”

  “Just thinking.” Her tone was serious, but she had always been a serious child; her bearing was grave, her face already beginning to show the lines of thoughtful maturity. She had grown up poor—and, he reminded himself sternly, without parents. That the young suffered from great impatience, Boudrie knew well, especially when their home life was not all that could be desired. He had seen too many girls leave Saint-Bertrand with boys as equally unfit for the world as they—often pregnant, and off to repeat the cycle of poverty and desperation that was their heritage. An uncomfortable twinge touched him. Paternal jealousy? Guilt? He looked at her face, so much like her mother’s, but with that broad peasant nose. Impossible, he assured himself weakly. “How does it go with the Americans?”

  She shrugged. “Not bad. Madame and Monsieur are very kind. Some guests have come—”

  “Who are not so kind?”

  She hesitated, then conceded, “It’s more work.”

  “You’re going back tomorrow?”

  “There’s nothing I can do for Tante Amalie. I saw Monsieur Devarre; did he say anything about her?”

  Without hesitation, Boudrie answered, “He believes the fever will run its course in another day or two.” Jesus, Mary, Joseph, forgive me, he thought.

  “I’ll pray.”

  He nodded. “What will you do then?” he said suddenly. “After your aunt is well, I mean. Go on with school? A job? Surely you can’t stay here forever keeping house for tourists.”

  “I’m not good in school,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “There’s a young man?”

  She lowered her eyes, then shook her head.

  “So—?”

  “What else can I do? There are no good jobs here. I could go to Grasse, perhaps, work as a waitress or in a store. But it doesn’t seem like much of an improvement.”

  “A hard life for a girl,” Boudrie agreed, thinking of smooth, elegant city men and their promises.

  She looked at him with something like resentment. “I’m not such a ‘girl’ as everyone seems to think.” Her posture shifted subtly as she spoke; there was a sullenness to her tone. Boudrie’s eyes widened: The combination was nothing short of sultry. Christ! There was a woman growing out of this child he had known all these years. Her defiance suggested that she knew a good deal more about the world than he had suspected, and was even prepared to tell him about it. He quickly decided he did not want to know.

  Her face relaxed into a smile. “No need to worry, monsieur. I’ll probably grow old cooking and keeping house, like Tante Amalie.”

  Her mockery made him grumpy, but then he smiled too. “At least until you marry a handsome young man and move away?”

  “It’s possible,” she said.

  Loss hovered in the air between them. “Well,” he said, “it might do you good to get the fresh air of a bigger place for a while. If you do want to try to get a job, let me know. I can’t promise anything, but no old priest is without his ways and means.”

  She cocked her head a little to the side—pride that would not give way to the obligation to show gratitude. Abruptly, he remembered the identical expression on her mother’s face from a long-distant night when, for the first time, he had dared to take her flowers.

  “Go home,” he said, waving his hand. “I don’t need your cousin’s anger aimed at me.” Eyes stinging, he fumbled for the car door-handle.

  “Monsieur?”

  He stopped.

  She hesitated, then said, “Do you ever—dream while you’re awake?”

  Boudrie turned to her again. The breeze had blown loose strands of hair across her face. She ignored them. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said slowly.

  For long seconds, he felt her on the edge of speaking again. Then she gave a little laugh. “I’m not either. Sometimes I think I daydream too much. But see, I’m holding up dinner. A bientot."

  He watched her walk quickly to the house, almost called her back. Had he sensed trouble in her voice, or only imagined it? The door opened; he could hear Mme. Durtal’s scolding break into the thick night, then go quiet with the closing door.

  Well, Christ knew the girl had reasons enough to be troubled, he thought, climbing laboriously into the car. His mind roved until it settled on brandy. He pressed a little harder on the accelerator.

  ** ** **

  McTell lay unmoving while Linden slipped off her robe and got into bed. They did not touch.

  “Are you feeling all right?” she murmured.

  Hands clasped behind his head, he gazed out the window at the restless night clouds, illuminated from within by the fattening moon. “Sure.”

  “You seem—tight.” She turned on her side and laid a hand on his arm.

  He shrugged. “I’m not angry. But it’s a bit much to have that wretched animal nearly tear my leg off, then get insulted to boot.”

  “Darling, I’m so sorry. She’s always been like that—starts yelling at whoever’s closest when something goes wrong.”

  “Nobody accused her of being the brightest woman in the world,” McTell said.

  For a moment neither spoke. Then Linden said, “I noticed beside the pool that your opinion of her intellect didn’t keep you from looking at her tits.”

  “God damn it,” he said, heating up, “I can’t help it if the woman won’t keep her clothes on.”

  “Shhhhh—just teasing.” Linden’s voice dropped huskily.

  “I bet I know something that’ll make you feel better.” One fingernail drew a slow line down his biceps, then moved onto his chest.

  He started to protest, but then lay still, staring out at the gently tossing black treetops, allowing his wife to believe that she could put things right. But it was like observing two actors at a distant remove; his mind stood apart, uninvolved.

  And suddenly, with a chilling certainty that came deep in his guts, he understood that between the two of them what they called lovemaking had only been an exercise in sensuality, an exchange of pleasure without the far deeper surrender his spirit cried for; that the trouble was not fatigue or depression or aging, as he had tried to tell himself; that even at those moments when he drove his seed into Linden, hearing his own cries mingled with hers, it had simply never been right. It was as if he was forever seeking a warmth within her that he never found—not mere warmth, either, but heat, fire, the way he had once burned in the arms and body of his lost first love. He let his eyes close, remembering with startling vividness, for the first time in decades, nights when every touch seemed breathtakingly new, when their hunger for each other had been endless and they had spent hours shyly and silently exploring the marvels of their bodies’ counterparts—and always, that almost unbearable heat, which had dissipated through the years to a lukewarm acceptance of what would suffice.

  He pressed his palms to Linden’s cheeks and raised her face. “Come lie down,” he said.

  “Am I not doing right?” she said anxiously.

  He shook his head. “Fine. Come on.” Reluctantly, she lay beside him again, one arm across his chest. “I suppose the run-in with Mona has me more upset than I thought.”

  “I feel helpless. I wish there were something I could do.”

  “I think I just need some sleep,” McTell said.

  She rose up on an elbow and looked into his eyes. “I love you, you know,” she said.

  “I love you too, Lin.” The words sounded dutiful.

  She watched his face a moment longer. Even in the dark, he could see her unease, and he tried to find more words of assurance, to say them with greater conviction. But nothing came, and she slowly turned on her side, her back to him.

  “Lin?
” he said after a moment. “How long are they going to stay?”

  He felt her shrug. “As long as they want.” And then, as if it explained, “She’s my sister.”

  Sleep was slow in coming to McTell, and while his rational mind protested that he was being unfair, a deeper and more powerful voice laid his troubles directly to the intruders in his house.

  CHAPTER 9

  The sun had returned, and in the sluggishness of the afternoon heat, McTell sat at his desk and stared at the grimoire. His night had been restless, and the morning had not improved his nerves; while Linden and Mona wandered the grounds calling for Pepin, he had stood at the edge of his study window, watching uneasily.

  But they had found nothing, and after lunch had gone out driving to inquire if anyone in the area had seen the dog. Bertie was taking his somewhat ostentatious siesta, complete with sleeping mask. Skip was doubtless getting a head start on the cocktail hour. Outwardly, all was well again; McTell and Mona had entered into an uncomfortably polite truce. But he could not concentrate, and he wondered vaguely at the numbness that had replaced his earlier shock at some of the material contained in the grimoire.

  Or perhaps, in the light of day, he was grudgingly coming to admit that this whole preoccupation was, after all, nothing but some sort of wish-projection, and a rather embarrassing one at that. He had been trying to turn a series of odd events and coincidences into something more. Courdeval’s book, he was sure by now, was only the dark fantasy of an unhinged mind like de Sade’s; and like the partner in a folie a deux, he, McTell, had been drawn into the sinister game. While he might have gone numb to the grimoire, his disgust for himself was growing.

  He pushed back his chair and stood, wanting something but not sure what: a cup of coffee, a drink—

  Or perhaps just the sight of Alysse. Automatically, he started down the hall to wash.

  As he passed the French doors to the upstairs deck, he heard voices drift up from the patio. They were indistinct—male and female, speaking French. Riboux the gardener, probably, in one of his rare appearances out of hiding, boring Alysse with some pompous drivel about how the estate should be properly managed. McTell did not care enough to take the man to task for his laziness, as long as the grounds remained in tolerable condition.