Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  “I have stopped drinking absinthe,” Averill said, “but I still drink the darkness. You would think that Casimir’s death would have cured me of that addiction, yet it is more potent than ever, the mystery deeper.”

  So they were at the heart of things already. Casimir stood between them, a dreadful burning brightness that obliterated everything else. She stared at Averill, words knotted in her throat.

  He met her gaze. Pale as his eyes were, his gaze seemed bottomless. “I never came back for the portrait. You can paint it now if you want. I have nothing more to hide from you.”

  A flare of anger gave her back her voice. “Then we can be truly honest at last?”

  “I told myself I was honest,” he answered, “that it was only a lie of omission. I did not tell you about the women I bedded, why should I tell you about Casimir?”

  “I did not know them.”

  “We were lovers only occasionally.” His voice was hesitant. “I kept thinking it might be over, but it never was, quite.” He paused. “If you had asked, I would have told you—but I did not want you to ask.”

  Theo still felt betrayed. “You implied there were such adventures—but only as a schoolboy experiment.”

  “I was sixteen when Casimir saved me from some bullies who were beating me for reading poetry.” He frowned. “I was small for my age and looked much younger. Now I wonder now if that drew him. He took me home with him. It was my first time.”

  Her heart ached. Averill had told her once that was how they met, but spoke only of the valiant rescue, not the seduction.

  He smiled a little. “That year I shot up inches. It seemed like magic, as if he had worked some miracle on me.”

  “You were in love with him.”

  It was an accusation, not a question, but Averill answered it quietly. “In love—and always a little afraid. Casimir was tender with me, but he also led me to the darkness. Then he showed me that darkness can lead to light.”

  Theo almost choked on the words, but she gave them to him. “He said the same of you.”

  “Did he?” Averill asked, puzzled. “Knowing what he did, that seems abominable.”

  Unable to stop herself, she repeated Casimir’s mysterious words. “He said unless it hurts you, it couldn’t be love.”

  Averill flinched as if slapped, but continued to answer her quietly. “Yes. I am a masochistic…at least on occasion. Nothing else is as…transfiguring. It is more like worship than sex. I discovered that secret with Casimir, that first time. Hurt lingered from the bullies beating. I wanted him so much the hurt did not matter. Pain and pleasure dissolved together. Dissolved me—body and soul.”

  Theo shivered a little. “And that made you love the pain?”

  “At first it was a transformation, a joy. Later—the more I hated myself, the more I craved it.” He closed his eyes, then opened them to face her again. “I needed the obliteration.”

  “But why did you hate yourself?”

  “Why do I hate myself? For not fighting my father—then for trying to kill him. For abandoning my mother and sister to my father’s viciousness. For returning to the same prison that destroyed them. There is no escape.”

  She put her hands on his shoulders. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers with a sigh. His hands rose to rest on her arms. She ached inside, filled with yearning and a terrible sadness. Impulsively, she kissed him. His lips were warm and full against her own. They trembled slightly. She felt him tense. His hands tightened fiercely but did not push her away or pull her closer. She felt no more than before, a yearning, an aching emptiness. She felt him waiting—as she was waiting. There was no rush of desire, no urge to melt into him.

  Confused, Theo drew back. Meeting her gaze, he smiled bitterly. “So he has murdered that as well.”

  It was true. She did not even know when it had happened. Was it when she saw Averill kiss Casimir? No, it had not ended then. But perhaps that had been the mortal wound that let desire bleed away and die, a husk on Casimir’s funeral pyre. “I wanted to marry you,” she whispered, stricken.

  Averill shook his head. “I will never marry. My family’s blood is degenerate.”

  “No!” she said fiercely.

  “Still defending me?”

  “I still love you,” she said, as he had said to her in the prison. She did.

  “But you are not in love with me anymore.”

  She did not answer. The pain in his eyes revealed he was still in love with her, which made it far more terrible. She ached all over, a pain in her heart that spread outward to every limb.

  A shaft of sunlight slanted across his face. He shielded his eyes. “Can we go inside? It is so bright here.”

  Theo was aware of the garden again, after seeing only him. The sunshine was a balm, one of the few she’d found, but he was always sensitive to its brightness. She led the way upstairs. In her apartment, the windows were open, vases filled with flowers. Underneath the fresh air and fragrant blossoms lingered the fumes of turpentine—something a painter with her own studio must live with. It was faint now, with the bottles sealed and paints put away, but still it made her queasy. It was a thinner, sharper smell than gasoline, but near enough to turn her stomach. It had not stopped her work at the easel. Painting was her exorcism. There would always be reminders. Would fire ever be friendly again?

  Averill looked over at the empty easel. “Have you been able to work at all?”

  He had been honest with her. Theo went to the corner, picked up the portrait that faced the wall and placed it on the easel. Turning back to him, she said, “I haven’t been drinking the darkness. I have been drowning in it.”

  Averill stared at the portrait. At last he said, “It’s horrific—horrific and magnificent.”

  “I hate it.”

  He nodded. “But you had to paint it.”

  Matthieu stared out from the canvas. The light falling across half his face was warm, but Theo revealed the grim shadow haunting his memory. She painted it, blackness bleeding scarlet and breathing sulphurous yellow. An acidic green oozed forth like a sickness of the soul. Not his sickness, yet he was stained by it. Anointed. The colors reached out from the background, wove through his hair and spilled over his shoulders.

  “Does the boy hate it too?”

  She shook her head. “He seems oddly comforted.”

  “He feels the presence. He is grateful you can see it too.”

  “Perhaps.” Theo did not know why Matthieu found comfort in her company, but he did. Perhaps because he did not want his mother to know how horrible it had been, but Theo knew already. There was no need to pretend.

  Going back to the wall, she took out a study of Mélanie with her skirt on fire, the image she had been too frightened, too ashamed to paint before. “I don’t want to show them.”

  He nodded, then glanced at the other canvases against the wall. Understanding, she said, “There are no pictures of Casimir. That’s strange isn’t it? Images of him blaze quickly, like a match, but then there is only utter darkness. With all the terrible memories haunting me, you think he would too.”

  Averill rested a hand on the easel. “You are not only painting Matthieu—you are painting yourself.”

  She nodded. It was not only the stench of the physical horrors that clung to her. It was the metaphysical horror as well.

  “But it has not corrupted you,” Averill said. “I do not know if you will ever lose your innocence. It is an innocence of the heart, of the spirit.”

  “I do not feel innocent. Not after what has happened. I feel swallowed by the darkness.”

  “Inside it for now, but never a part of it. Even lost in it as you feel you are now, you give off light. You are a beacon.”

  Theo thought how Averill shied from the sunlight and how Casimir had said she drove him deeper into the shadow. She glanced at the telegram sitting on the table. “My father wants to take me to Italy.”

  “Go. See all the beauty that you can. I will be going to
Vienna this summer for a convention on the new methods in psychiatry.” He paused. “And there is a chance my father has hidden Jeanette there.”

  Theo had spared little thought for Jeanette these last days, but she knew his sister was precious to Averill. “You will keep searching for her?”

  “Yes, though I think it is hopeless. Father will have given her another name whether she is still in France or in some other country. He will have hidden the records far better. She may be well tended, or abused. I do not know. But I must look.”

  “I will help.”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps later.”

  She nodded, feeling as hopeless as he did. Averill came to her and kissed each cheek in a formal salute. “It may be months before we see each other again.”

  He needed those months, she realized. But surely this wound would heal. He smiled sadly then turned and left her alone.

  ~

  Theo cried after he left, but only briefly. Averill’s loss was greater, and she felt a sham indulging hers. Going to the table, she started to compose a telegram of acceptance to her father. There was a knock. When she went to the door, it was Matthieu. He looked at her closely, but didn’t question her red-rimmed eyes, any more than she ever questioned his. “Maman is making bouillabaisse, mademoiselle, with many fish. You are invited.”

  Theo wanted to be alone, but alone she would be miserable. “Thank you, I love bouillabaisse.”

  “The Inspecteur is coming.”

  “Is he? That will be nice.” Michel had come by once already this week to make sure they were doing all right.

  “He promised to bring his guitar.”

  That was hard to picture, Michel strumming a guitar. Would he let her sketch him while he played? “I’ll bring bread and wine.”

  “At seven tonight, so we can hear some songs first.”

  “At seven, then.”

  After Matthieu left, Theo washed her face and walked down to the Pommiers to buy bread and bring news. But Averill had been by earlier, so instead she listened to their praise and agreed that he was the kindest of gentlemen and brave as a lion.

  “He rescued my Ninette from that evil Satanist—a vile, slithering snake who should go to the guillotine,” Madame Pommier declared. “But they may only send him to Devil’s Island like that traitor, Dreyfus.”

  “It has been a terrible time,” Theo said. They agreed most earnestly.

  Baguette in hand, she made her way to the vintner’s shop and chose a rich, silky red from Margaux for the shared dinner. Back home, she still felt at odds and ends. Going to the wardrobe, she began to lay out clothes that she might take to Italy. The decision made, she wanted to leave as soon as possible. But before she left, she had two favors to ask Michel.

  When Theo went downstairs, he was already there, sitting on a chair tuning his guitar. It looked old but carefully tended. She greeted Matthieu’s mother, who was chopping parsley and thyme for the soup. Theo handed over the bread and wine, and made her usual offer to help. But Madame Masson was possessive of her kitchen and shooed her away. Matthieu was in his room, finishing his schoolwork before dinner. Theo went to sit beside Michel.

  Looking up, he asked in the careful English he’d begun practicing with her now that he was more friend than flic, “How are you this evening, Miss Faraday?”

  She shrugged off that unhappy answer and said, “I will be going to Italy. My guardian is taking me to see the museums and artists’ workshops.”

  Surprise flickered in his eyes but he only said, “I understand why you wish to leave.”

  “Yes, for a time. But I’ll worry about Matthieu. Could you come by sometime?”

  “I will come at least once a week,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She felt both grateful and puzzled that he would promise to visit so often. “Are you always so kind?”

  “No.”

  She waited but he said nothing more. Feeling awkward, she added, “I’m sorry if that sounded insulting.”

  He returned to French. “Someone helped me when I was a boy. I think perhaps it is time for me to help this boy in return.”

  Again Theo waited for Michel to explain, but he resumed tuning his guitar. Quietly, she said, “I have another favor to beg.”

  Her choice of phrase made him look at her sharply. “If I can help, I will.”

  “You remember that Averill’s father told him Jeanette was hidden away?”

  He understood instantly. “If she is in France, I might be able to find some record. But his father is also in a position to circumvent such rules.”

  “I know.”

  “Monsieur Cochefert, the chief of the Surêté, will be sympathetic to the situation,” Michel said, “since Monsieur Charron was falsely accused.”

  “Thank you.” Theo was glad he made the acknowledgement himself.

  He frowned, then said hesitantly. “I know a man of many resources who may offer assistance.”

  Theo waited for more, but Michel only asked, “Does Averill have any clues?”

  “He told me he is going to look in Vienna, but he believes she may still be here in France.” Theo’s sense of hopelessness returned. When Matthieu emerged from his room, paper in hand, she welcomed the distraction to look over his work. “Only one mistake.”

  He gave her a smile, then began to set things on the table.

  Michel finished tuning the guitar and turned to Madame Masson. “I am happy to sing for my supper, Madame. Do you have any requests?”

  “Can you play Le Temps des cerises?” she asked. “They are no longer singing it in the streets, but I keep hearing it in my mind.”

  Last week was the anniversary of the death of the Commune, Theo remembered. They called it La semaine sanglante—the bloody week. Appropriate in more ways than one.

  Michel frowned, and Matthieu’s mother looked disconcerted. Michel was a policeman after all, Theo thought, and probably no friend to Communards and their sympathizers.

  Giving him an excuse, Madame Masson said, “Perhaps you don’t know it?”

  He gave her a small smile. “I think everyone knows it, Madame.”

  Theo listened as his fingers plucked the melody from the strings. Then he began to sing the poignant song that was the emblem of the Commune. His voice was lovely, deeper than she’d have expected. Matthieu and his mother joined in.

  Unexpectedly Theo felt the tears she’d conquered earlier return, stinging her eyes. Only two months ago, she’d been riding beneath the blossoming cherry trees, the same pink as the tea roses in the courtyard below. Two months ago, she realized she was in love with Averill. That same day she met Michel and discovered something malevolent haunted the streets of her beloved Montmartre. Two months and all of it was gone. The evil destroyed. Love destroyed. The beauty of the cherry blossoms had conjured an idyllic future—a future as much a pipedream as the aspirations of the Commune.

  Her heart ached, but Theo swallowed back the tears and joined in the last verse.

  I'll always cherish cherry season

  a time I keep within my heart

  an open wound

  and Lady Luck, afflicting me

  can never ease my pain

  I'll always cherish cherry season

  and keep the memory in my heart.

  Acknowledgments

  Floats The Dark Shadow was carefully researched in Paris and in dozens of fascinating books. But somewhere in these pages an error must lurk. I hope the reader will accept this world as a slightly alternate universe in which the discrepancy is true.

  Michel Colson’s marvelous Fog On Montmartre is our cover photo. View his work or plan a photographic tour with him:

  http://www.photoinparis.com

  Fax Sinclair did my portrait. You can see her gorgeous nature photography on line:

  http://www.fax-sinclair.com

  Special thanks to Captain Jay Jorgensen of the Albany, CA. fire department, for his expert advice.

  A toast to the critique partners who offere
d advice on the full text: Mary Eichbauer, Tashery Shannon of Frogtown Bookmaker, Judith Stanton of cat crossing, Nancy Adams, Barb Schlichting, and my husband, Richard Anderson.

  http://frogtownbookmaker.com

  http://www.catcrossing.com

  http://nancyadamsfiction.com

  http://nancyadamsediting.wordpress.com

  http://www.barbschlichting.com

  http://deathbelowzero.com

  Quotes from J. K. Huysman’s Là Bas are from the public domain translation by Keene Wallace.

  Jon McKenny provided the moving translation of Cherry Time. The epigrams for Chapters 3, 6, 7, 16, 18, 24, 30, 41 and 42 are his. Contact him at:

  jonmckenney@juno.com

  Sonja Elen Kisa did the Maldodor translation from Chapter 40. View it and her other work at:

  http://kisa.ca

  A.S. Kline gave permission for me to use his wonderful Verlaine translation for Chapter 13: http://www.poetryintranslation.com

  Mary Eichbauer did the translations of Anna, Comtesse de Noailles, and together we fashioned the poem about the Anatomical Venus.

  Charles Sturm’s beautiful translation inspired the title. The epigram of Chapter 27 is also his. Other public domain epigrams are the work of M.D. Calvocoressi in Chapter 4, Gertrude Hall in Chapters 18 and 35. The mysterious Eugenia de B translated Victor Hugo’s prose for Chapter 36.

  The remaining epigrams, The Anarchists’ Song, and The Danse Macabre translations are mine. To discover more about the Belle Époque, visit my website.

  http://www.YvesFey.com

  YVES FEY has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Oregon, Eugene, and a BA in Pictorial Arts from UCLA. She has read, written, and created art from childhood. A chocolate connoisseur, she's won prizes for her desserts. Her current fascination is creating perfumes, including fragrances inspired by her novel. She's traveled to many countries in Europe and lived for two years in Indonesia. She currently lives in the San Francisco area with her husband and three cats. Writing as Gayle Feyrer and Taylor Chase, she previously published unusually dark and mysterious historical romances. For more about Yves Fey and the Belle Époque visit: