by Anne Rice
Months after, Gabriella, drifting into Marie’s bedroom, flung herself with flounces and tears on the bed and cried that Charles had written insisting they all move to Marseilles. “I don’t know anything about Marseilles, I don’t want to go to Marseilles!” She beat the pillow and yanked her hair. Even Cecile who generally greeted her with a subtle disdain had spoken some comforting words though later she muttered to Marcel, “Such nonsense over that spoilt yellow brat, so let him live where he wants.”
Marcel had winced. And couldn’t help but note silently that Charles, that “spoilt yellow brat” was somewhat less yellow than himself. But that was not the point. His mother’s sentiments offended him. They were gross and out of place. One did not use such language especially not when speaking of those one knew. And meanwhile Gabriella lost herself in a round of soirees after her fourteenth birthday and Celestina having mourned a little while for Charles’ father (she had always liked him “the best”) began to keep company with an old white gentleman from Natchez. They had turned Charles’ pictures to the wall.
But Marcel could not forget the biting determination on that young man’s face when he had announced his departure, the ringing sarcasm in that laugh when he had been pressed to remain. And thinking of all this now in the dingy light of Madame Lelaud’s, a sparkle of sun occasionally blinding him when the rear door opened and shut, his pencil working, his lips occasionally moving with a fragment of his thoughts, he envisioned Christophe as he had left him that first night in front of this bar, standing in the thin rain. The posture had struck him then, Christophe’s stance, eyes fixed upward as if on the pale stars. And he had a strong sense suddenly of the quiet, soft-voiced man who had followed him everywhere for a day without complaint, and then leapt so suddenly atop that carriageway to bring down the fragrant magnolia flower in his hand.
And suddenly Marcel slammed shut the sketchbook, and all but upsetting the chair, left the bar. So what if Christophe had told him to wait, he could not wait, he must find Christophe now.
The gate was open, the long narrow bed of ivy cleared to reveal a path of jagged but even purple flags. And a door lay ajar, far at the back, to the dimly lit hall.
No answer came when Marcel called. A black slave, naked to the waist, fed random broken boards to a smoldering fire in the yard. He eyed Marcel indifferently, and through the dirty gray smoke, his body drenched with sweat, his large black head all but bald, he presented some image to Marcel of souls suffering in Hell. Marcel took a cautious step into the gloomy house and moved toward the front room. “Monsieur Christophe?” he called. “Madame Juliet?” It echoed in the uncarpeted emptiness as did a distant hammer somewhere, and a wrenching sound of something pulled apart.
A broad path had been cleared in the thick dust of the parquet and sensing that a dozen workmen had followed that path he followed it, turning now to the open doors of the great front room.
He could not resist a smile. What had been a shadowy ruin was so completely transformed. Rows of desks stood perfectly along the polished boards, each with its small glittering glass inkwell, and in the dusty shafts of sun that fell from the slatted blinds he saw along the freshly painted walls a gallery of framed engravings, maps, and dim paintings where shepherds piped amid placid lakes under rosy gilt-edged clouds. A lectern stood before the marble fireplace. And beyond, fitted around those high windows that faced the street, were rows of books, and a marble bust of some Caesar staring forward with smooth blind eyes.
But in the midst of this, at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, there stood a tall white man in a dove gray coat. His golden yellow hair was brilliant in the rays of the sun that appeared to truly bathe his slender face, his green eyes. Never had Marcel understood this concept of the sun, that it might “bathe” an object or a person, until this instant. It seemed the man was luxuriating in it and set off by it as actors are when “playing their lights.” He was looking upward, this man, perhaps at his own thoughts, eyelashes sparse and golden, his lips forming some private word, when he turned, quite aware of Marcel standing there, and said, “Monsieur Christophe?”
“I am looking for him, Monsieur,” Marcel said.
“Ah, then we are looking for the same person,” said the man, this coming in an English far unlike the hard American twang heard so often, and Marcel knew at once that it was British, and educated, and it was slightly sardonic in tone.
The man turned and walked the length of the classroom, his steps precise as though he enjoyed the sound of his boots.
“Ah, well, then,” Marcel began carefully in English, “perhaps I should ask one of the workmen, sir.”
“I’ve consulted them already but they are not workmen, they are slaves,” the man said, and shifting effortlessly into French continued, “and it seems the master is not at home. Are you acquainted with ‘Monsieur’ Christophe.” There was clear mockery in the way that he said Monsieur. There had been mockery in it before when he had said Monsieur Christophe. There was, in fact, a deep ironical tone to all his words, and Marcel felt uneasy. He could not place it, but he had heard this very tone before, and recently. “Perhaps in the meantime,” said the man, “you can explain to me the meaning of these quaint little desks.”
Who this man was Marcel could not imagine, and yet something nagged at his memory. But suppose he were some bigoted person, newly arrived and suspicious of this school? There were places in the Southland where free Negroes were not allowed education any more than slaves. And though this was somewhat unreal to Marcel, he was wary.
“Perhaps I should look for Madame Juliet, Monsieur,” Marcel turned to go.
“You waste your time. She’s gone to market, charming woman that she is, and so very hospitable,” came the answer.
And it was at this moment that Marcel realized, in utter confusion, that this ironical tone reminded him of Christophe.
The Englishman came forward, moving in and out of the slanting light.
He was considering Marcel, perhaps carefully, and Marcel, sensing some danger, felt his eyes mist over and everything become indistinct. Then he saw the man stroking the newly finished wood of one of the desks. He did not sneer at all this, but it seemed he did. A delicate map of blue veins showed at his temples and on the backs of his hands. They were very mature hands. The man was older, much older than he seemed, but lithe and youthful, and extremely handsome. Marcel did not like him.
“What is this place, a school? I know it’s ‘Monsieur’ Christophe’s house but is it also a school?” came that perfect French again but without a characteristic Gallic thrust.
“If you’ll excuse me, Monsieur, I’ll come back another time,” Marcel said, and went out.
But as soon as he stepped into the street, he saw Christophe. Head bowed, he was walking doggedly up the Rue Dauphine, sidestepping the rain puddles, his arms filled with parcels. He almost tripped at the curb.
“Ah, Marcel!” he said. “Give me a hand with this.” His face brightened.
Marcel quickly shifted two of the bulky bundles into his left arm. “Monsieur, there’s a man waiting for you…”
“Did you see the classroom?” Christophe asked. “I was looking for you today, and a very lovely young woman—your sister, I believe—told me you were out walking. Seems you spend your days walking, or so she let me know. Where were you, Madame Lelaud’s?”
“Who, me, Monsieur, in a place like that!” Marcel laughed. “The classroom is splendid, Monsieur, but it’s enormous.”
“Well, you were right in your predictions, I’ve been turning people away, that is, when I haven’t been tearing my hair out by the roots. The place is falling apart…no, no, let’s go in by the gate.” He gestured for Marcel to pass first, following him back the alley. “There’s not a window that doesn’t stick, a door that isn’t warped, and a board that isn’t infested with termites, there are rats…”
“But that’s nothing out of the ordinary here, Monsieur,” Marcel said, “they can fix it. But excuse me,
there’s a man waiting…”
“So let him wait,” Christophe gestured as they entered the hallway opposite the door of the back room. “Open that, please, will you? I want to get these books unpacked. I’ve been talking to people all week. I set the tuition at ten dollars a month and it discouraged no one. Where is my mother,” and dropping his voice to a whisper, “she’s in a terrible mood.”
Marcel felt a spasm. “But why?” Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen the Englishman at the far end of the hall before they entered the room.
“Open those windows, will you?” Christophe dropped the bundles on a large table already stacked with books. “She’s in a terrible mood because she doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. She would like to put me in a bell jar. There are twenty students now at least.” He took a deep breath, looking about himself. “Well, we’ll see what happens on the first day of class. Someone will drop, no doubt, and there will be room for others, if I haven’t lost the waiting list, hmmm.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. His eyes were afire.
The blinds were new and opened easily to emit the same gentle sun that had illuminated that front room, pouring as it did into a deep alleyway dividing the townhouse from the one next to it, a place still alive with much of the lush greenery that had been cleared from the other side. And the room in this new light appeared cluttered with all manner of fascinating objects, busts of Voltaire, Napoleon, Grecian goddesses, and a distinguished head Marcel had never known. Books were heaped all over, there were the trunks and crates Marcel had glimpsed before, and framed pictures in leaning stacks against the walls.
“For years,” Christophe said, just catching his breath, “I sent home packages from all over the world. And I never really knew why. Why would my mother want a small marble bust of Marcus Aurelius, for instance? What would she do with Shakespeare’s works? I’m lucky she didn’t put them by the chamberpot. It was as if I knew I was coming back, and as if I knew it was all meant for something, all those boxes traveling the Atlantic, it was all destined for this moment, this place. I have the distinct impression that life can be worthwhile.” He smiled at Marcel, and then let out a low excited laugh. “Imagine,” he said. “Life being worthwhile. You know, Marcel, there is a line in St. Augustine, the only line I remember from St. Augustine, as a matter of fact; it is ‘God triumphs on the ruins of our plans.’ Ever read that? Well, I can’t explain it now…”
“Monsieur,” Marcel whispered. The gray-suited Englishman had come into the door.
Christophe reached forward and clasped Marcel’s neck. “Christophe,” he said, “you were going to call me Christophe, remember? Not Monsieur, but Christophe, hmmmmm? Now I want you to tell me frankly how these books compare with those you’ve used in the past, there’s a penknife somewhere in all this mess, I’m going to send abroad for more books, but remember, from here on out, it’s Christophe.”
“Christophe,” echoed the Englishman behind him. Christophe turned.
The Englishman stood as before, hands clasped behind his back, but the ironical lift of his eyebrows was gone, and the green eyes were softened with a radiance that emanated from his entire expression as he surveyed the man before him who was undergoing a dramatic change.
It was a change so complete and remarkable in Christophe that Marcel felt it, as if some current had zipped through the air between the two men.
Color danced in the Englishman’s face. “Well,” he stepped into the room glancing disdainfully at a heap of books that fell to one side at the brush of his boot. “This is an awfully long way to go for the morning papers and a litre of white wine.”
The muscles of Christophe’s face tensed, and the eyes became moist, and as he remained motionless staring at the Englishman, the veins slowly corded in his temples and in his neck.
“That was it, wasn’t it?” the Englishman asked, his speech crisp as his eyes scanned the clutter of the room. “You were going out for the newspapers, and a litre of white wine?”
“How did you get here?” Christophe whispered. The voice was low and thick and had a slight resonance Marcel had never heard. “What are you doing here?”
The Englishman was stung. “I might ask you that question, Chris,” he said, and the color in his pale cheeks darkened, emphasizing the bright cornsilk of his eyebrows and his hair. He flashed his warm and wounded expression around the room, and reaching out for a small ivory statuette on the cluttered table picked it up, turning it easily in one hand. “Istanbul?” he asked, and set it down. His pale fingers touched the forehead of a marble bust. “This we bought in Florence, didn’t we?”
“You bought it in Florence! Why did you come here!” Christophe turned, however, before the man could answer; and he closed his hand over his eyes as if he were squeezing his temples tight between thumb and fingers, letting out a moan at the same time. Then looking at the ceiling he said loudly between clenched teeth, “Oooo God.” With his back to the Englishman and to Marcel, he appeared to be pounding his fist into the palm of the other hand.
The emotion in the room was palpable, and the Englishman’s lips were suddenly trembling as with a sudden violent impatience, he snatched one thing after another from the table and tossed it about, a statue, a handful of chessmen that he let drop like pebbles, a rolled tapestry he flung out as if it were wet and then threw to the floor. He overturned a stack of books and ran his hand lightly over the gilt titles, his voice spiteful, biting, as he read, “Histoire de Rome, simples et composés de la langue anglaise, leçons d’analyse grammaticale, what is this, Christophe, some missionary outpost among the natives, where is your cassock, your crucifix? And when does the local populace string you up for educating slaves?”
“I’m not here to educate slaves, Michael.” Christophe’s voice was dull. He stood still with his back to the man, his shoulders slightly slumped, while Marcel watched, afire himself with rage. He felt the Englishman’s eyes on him now, on the disordered bookshelves behind his head. The pale, sharp-featured face showed some indignation, some thin and righteous disgust, and everything around the man appeared shabby suddenly, to have nothing of his own vibrant and gilded person. It infuriated Marcel, the sight of Christophe’s bent shoulders infuriated him, and above all it infuriated him that the room once so fabulous in its jumble of treasures was now dusty and smelled of mold.
With a thumb hooked in his pants pocket and a hand curled on his chin, Christophe was thinking. He drew himself up and said calmly,
“Go back to Paris, Michael. It’s a bad thing, your coming here. I should have written you, and I would have written in time. Now you must forgive me for that, and you must leave here. You can’t accomplish anything here. You had best get right on the boat for France now, this isn’t the place for you, any other place in the world, perhaps, but not here…”
“It’s the place for you, Christophe?” the man asked. He strode about the room glaring at the shelves, at the sawdust that overlay the windowsills, and kicked a heap of curled maps with his foot. “It’s a marvelous measure of character the debris a man collects about him. We went through Greece with a knapsack if I remember, and in Cairo we had a small leather valise.”
Marcel had to rip his eyes off this man with an effort. It was as if the hatred he felt for him and the fear he felt of him kept him riveted. “I’ll come back, Monsieur,” he said striding toward the door.
“No!” Christophe pivoted. “I need you today! That is, I want you…I would prefer if you stay…” he was all but stammering, his eyes watery and gleaming. “There’s a knife somewhere,” he snapped his fingers…“those parcels, Marcel, the school’s to start on Monday, I’m not even close to prepared, the knife’s…the knife,” he snapped his fingers again, the voice barely under control.
“And who’s to come to this school, then, you’re teaching white students?” came the indignant voice. “Tell me what you are doing here, Chris!”
Marcel quickly drew out his keychain and the small silver knife attached to it, and
cut through the twine of a loose bundle of books. He removed them from the crumpled paper, his hands awkward and fumbling under the Englishman’s hard gaze. He had to defy the man. He had to look at him. And as he ripped the twine of the next bundle, he looked up.
But the Englishman wasn’t looking at him at all. He was staring almost stupidly forward, the color still dark in his face. And he was suffering.
And Christophe, as if he couldn’t risk a moment’s hesitation, was snatching the books from the table and stuffing them into the shelves. His hands smoothed the rows, brought the spines out deftly to sit even with the edge. All his gestures said this man isn’t here, he’s not even here. But his face was stricken, and there was something hunted and miserable in his eyes. When a book slipped from his grasp, he snatched it angrily from the floor.
“Stop that!” the man said. He slapped the book out of Christophe’s hand. And then lowering his head as he bore down on Christophe, his voice went soft. “You did this to spite me, Chris? But why!”
“It has nothing to do with you, Michael!” Christophe was all but groaning. “Don’t you see! It’s what I want to do! It has nothing to do with you! I told you I was going home, I told you I was leaving Paris, I tried to talk with you before I left, you wouldn’t listen to me, I was in a glass box shouting at the top of my lungs, for God’s sakes, Michael, get out of here, go back to Paris, and let me alone!”
At that moment Juliet appeared at the door, and for an instant Marcel did not know who she was. A corseted lady stood there, immaculate in new muslin and all that lovely hair was drawn up in a wreath of braids on the back of her head. But there was no time for savoring this. She was looking intently at the Englishman.
And the Englishman was brutally stunned.
He had stepped back and moved by himself, in his thoughts, about the room. He took slow shuffling steps. Christophe was beside himself. He was struggling for control, and running a hand back through his hair now he turned toward the man, quite oblivious to Juliet or to Marcel.