by Anne Rice
The Englishman’s bright eyes held his steadily as he brought up a clutch of bills from his pocket and dropping them on the table, he said, “You do this to wound me, Chris. And you’ve succeeded, but you could have been a great writer, you could have done anything you wanted with your talent. Wounding me is a pathetic accomplishment in comparison!” And rising he left.
Christophe was furious and impotent in his fury as he watched the Englishman disappear through the crowd at the door.
But after a long while of sipping his beer slowly and moving his lips now and then as though communing with himself he said to Marcel wearily in French, “Forgive me for all this arguing in a language you don’t understand.”
“But Christophe,” Marcel said in English, “You are a great writer, isn’t that true?”
“Marcel, I just know this, that if I hadn’t gotten out of Paris and the Quartier Latin when I did, I would have died. If I am destined to be a great writer, all I need is pen and paper and the solitude occasionally of my own room. Now come on, let’s get out of here.”
His stride had been swift then. His hand was firm and casual on Marcel’s shoulder as he led Marcel, quite to his surprise, down the Rue Dumaine to meet Madame Dolly Rose.
They drank coffee with her in the shade of her patio. She was shamelessly dressed in a yellow sprigged muslin though it was only three weeks since the death of her little daughter, and an equally shameless piano music carried out of the windows of her flat. But she was pale, had dark shadows under her eyes, and her hands shook. She laughed sometimes with a forced gaiety and teased Marcel about his blond hair. She called him “Blue Eyes” while Christophe smiled serenely, and she spiked their coffee with brandy which she drank herself, desperately and lustily as a man, without effect.
A lovely woman, delicate of feature and voice, she could speak the patois one minute and her usual Parisian French the next, laughing in sudden frantic but alluring spurts as she reminded him of the characters of the streets in their childhood, the old chimney sweeper who had threatened them with his broom when he had caught Dolly and Christophe marching behind him, mimicking his gestures and his sing-song voice. “Well, Blue Eyes!” she had said once when she caught Marcel watching her. She had kissed him on the cheek. “Women,” he thought with an uncomfortable shift in his chair. But he beamed at her. And did not like to see her lapse suddenly into silence. Christophe was content here. He clasped his hands behind his neck, and when the music within had stopped, looked up with interest to see that strange tattered black slave coming down the steps, that painfully thin boy who had brought his key chain from Dolly’s house weeks before. Dolly called him Bubbles, gave him small coins now for his dinner and sent him off. “Well, I finally bought him outright,” she said. “But he just runs away.” He had been cheap, and tuned pianos perfectly, but never brought the money back to her; it had been a failure, buying him, she ought to sell him to the fields.
“You don’t mean that,” Christophe scoffed. “Sell him to the fields.”
“But he was not the one playing the piano, was he?” Marcel asked.
“He can play anything,” Dolly said. “That is, when he’s here.”
“Buy him a decent coat, some shoes…” Christophe said.
“And then I’d never see him!” Dolly snapped. “You buy him a decent coat!” She was suddenly crestfallen and distant. But Christophe had leaned across the table and given her a slow gentle kiss as Marcel took a bit of a walk about the yard.
And after that Christophe had hired the slave, Bubbles, to help him with his work at the house, and given him an old serviceable suit of clothes. That got him into decent houses again with his tuning wrenches, and the day before the school had opened he had tuned the spinet in the Lermontant parlor and played an eerie song for Marcel and Richard, his fingers like spiders on the keys as he rocked back and forth on the stool, his eyes closed, humming along with the obscure melodies through clenched teeth. And he had not run away.
But these bits and pieces of Christophe’s life which Marcel witnessed before the school began were but the tip of the iceberg. Much had gone on behind closed doors. Rumors had rippled through Marcel’s small world that Christophe took to spending late nights with the Englishman after that quarrel at Madame Lelaud’s, that he was wined and dined in the Englishman’s suite at the St. Charles Hotel with the slaves dismissed before he took his place at a table set for two in the privacy of the Englishman’s room. And Dolly Rose had had Christophe often as a guest in the afternoons, even walking out with him around the Place d’Armes, while everyone knew that she was receiving a white military officer in the hours after dark.
And just when all had expected that man to take up informal residence with Dolly (he was refurbishing the flat), she had broken off this connection violently, and gone dancing again at the “quadroon balls.” All this frightened Marcel, he would have preferred for Christophe not to be seen so much there. Dolly caused trouble for men, men were dead on account of Dolly—of course up until now, they had all been white—yet it fascinated Marcel that Christophe was obviously quite pleasing to the demanding Dolly, and Dolly was pleasing enough to Christophe.
Meantime Juliet had been in a rage. Only Christophe’s threat to “throw everything up” if she did not show some courtesy to Michael Larson-Roberts had succeeded in calming her. If she remembered her little boudoir encounter with Marcel she did not show it; her son was now the man in her life. And the very night before the school opened, there had been another fight in the townhouse, complete once more with the breaking of glass. Lisette had told Marcel at dawn, when he was dressed and ready hours before, that Juliet had disappeared around midnight and had still not come home.
“Oh, you don’t know that, that’s foolishness,” he had answered sharply. “You were sound asleep at midnight yourself.”
“I might have been but there’s lots of others who were awake!” she said knowingly. “I tell you if that fancy schoolteacher doesn’t get that woman in hand…”
“I won’t listen to this!” Marcel had stormed, playing the master, “Take that tray out of here and go!” It was foolish to argue with her. She knew everything, it was true, and lying down for a while, as neatly dressed and still as a corpse on his bed, he thought to himself, maybe some day she’ll know something that I want to know. Lisette was warm to him even if downright disrespectful, but her face could be as sullen and unreadable as that of any other slave when she chose.
But as soon as he had entered the new classroom, first to arrive, one glance at Christophe’s drawn face had told him this must be true. The teacher was spiffily dressed for the first day, sporting a new silk tie, and a rich beige vest beneath his chocolate brown coat. But he looked debonair and half-dead.
“Have you seen my mother?” he had asked in a whisper. And then before the others had begun to arrive, he vanished to the rooms upstairs.
The Englishman had passed the front windows at seven-forty-five A.M., a bent figure, hands clasped behind his back as usual, clearly recognizable even through the half-open shutters, but he had not stopped.
Then when the room was filled and waiting, Christophe had made his swift entrance right on the hour, face radiant, and there began this exciting day for all of them which went without a mishap or a dull moment until the stroke of twelve. One half hour before they were to be dismissed, early on this first day, he had begun their Greek instruction with a short and moving recitation of a verse in translation and then in the original tongue. Marcel had never heard classical Greek recited; he could not read a syllable of it. But listening to this beautiful and impassioned speech, he had felt the heart of the poem as one feels it with music. Above the blackboard between the two front windows there hung an engraving of a Greek theater carved into the deep side of a hill. The audience sat in flowing robes; a lone figure stood in the center of the field below. Listening he had been transported to that place, and he was full to the brim at last when the noon Angelus had rung. He had bowed his
head. A sudden burst of applause rang from the back of the room. It was those older boys, the colored planters’ sons, who had thought to do it. Christophe smiled gratefully, demurring, and let them go.
Only one aspect of all this had disappointed Marcel. And that was his jealousy of all these students who were encountering his teacher for the first time. There had been no sign to him that he was special, that he was Christophe’s friend. Of course he hadn’t expected it. He knew that he was to be treated as anyone else. Yet it hurt him and he was angry with himself for it and did not want this to show on his face. He thought he might hang about, offering perhaps to look for Juliet. But what if he were brushed off, Christophe after all was so very busy. He wasn’t really worried about Juliet besides. He felt an anger with her that grew out of this week’s long intimacy of working together in the schoolrooms, dining together at the little round table, easy with one another in their pride and their exhaustion, as she called him “cher” always, and sometimes rubbed the top of his head. It was too mean to have run off on this all-important night. He was certain she was all right.
“Well I hope Antoine hears of today’s proceedings,” Marcel said to Richard with spirit. “I hope he hears that Christophe is the most brilliant teacher since Socrates, and the school is going to be a success.”
Richard shrugged. They had just reached the Ste. Marie gate. “The hell with Antoine,” he whispered.
“Come on, let’s go to my room.”
Richard was reluctant. He had refused Marcel’s invitations several times this week, and at first Marcel had not noticed this, but it was very clear that again Richard did not wish to accept.
“What’s the matter with you?” Marcel pressed. He was so elated, he wanted to share this with Richard. And not to worry about the Englishman or Juliet. They could talk about the class, mull it over, make it endure.
But Richard struck an unusual pose. He lowered the bundle of books in his arm, straightened up to his full height of six feet and six inches and with his right hand behind his back made Marcel a civil bow. “I must speak with you, Marcel,” he said, “on an important matter, now, in your room.”
“Well, perfect!” Marcel said. “I just invited you, didn’t I?”
Richard hesitated. Then he nodded. “Yes, you did. However it would have been better…” he stopped. He was embarrassed. “It would have been better had I come to call. Nevertheless, may I speak to you? It’s a pressing matter. May I speak to you now?”
Marcel was beginning to laugh. Then his face became somber. “Just so long as it isn’t about Anna Bella,” he murmured. “About my going to see her.”
“No,” Richard shook his head. “Because I assume and justly so that you went to see her. You’re a gentleman. You wouldn’t ignore her request.”
A momentary anger flashed in Marcel’s eye. He opened the gate and led the way back the alley to the garçonnière.
Pulling off his newer, stiffer boots at once, he settled on the bed as he selected an older pair, and gestured for Richard to take the chair at the desk. He was quite surprised to see that Richard merely stood in the door. Richard had set his books down, but his hands were clasped behind his back and he was staring at Marcel.
“Richard,” Marcel said calmly “I will go to see her in my own good time.”
A faint shadow of pain passed over Richard’s face. “Make it soon, Marcel,” he said.
“Is this all you think about? Anna Bella? I know Anna Bella better than you do.” Marcel could feel his face reddening. He thrust the discarded boots aside and strode heavily to the back of the room, sitting on the windowsill against the close trees, his back to the frame, his knee crooked, one foot on the sill before him. “No one has to tell me when to see Anna Bella,” he said coldly.
Richard remained motionless, his demeanor utterly formal. “Have you seen her?” he asked, his voice so low that the question was almost inaudible.
Marcel turned his head. He looked down into the bracken, into the drifts of ivy hanging from the oaks. “Let’s talk about school, Richard, it’s going to be rough,” he said.
When Richard didn’t answer, he went on.
“Those boys, Dumanoir and the other one from the country, do you realize they’ve both studied in France for a year. Dumanoir was at the Lycée Louis le-Grand…”
“They told everyone that four times,” Richard murmured. “Let us settle this…about Anna Bella. Because it is not the subject of this call. I must talk to you about something else.”
“Good lord, what next!” Marcel sighed.
“All right, let me be rude,” Richard said. “If you don’t go to see her, she will think that I didn’t give you her message.”
“She’s given the same message to Marie. Believe me, she knows her messages have been relayed.”
“I don’t understand this!” Richard insisted. He was becoming heated and his voice was lower, softer than before. He stepped into the room. “When the rest of us were running from girls and making faces at them, you were fast friends with her, Marcel! You spent half the day at her house all summer long. Now that you’re old enough to…”
“Old enough to what!” Marcel turned on him suddenly. The edge on his voice startled Richard.
Richard looked down. “She wants to talk to you…” he murmured.
Marcel’s face was darkly flushed. He removed his foot from the frame of the window and stood. Richard studied him uneasily.
“Madame Elsie won’t let me near Anna Bella. I can’t see Anna Bella!” Marcel said. “And if I could…what would I say?”
“But there is a situation there, Marcel…”
“I know that, my fine gentlemanly friend,” Marcel answered. “I know all about it. I know more about it than you know about it. But what can I do about it!” He was astonished to realize that he was trembling, that a sweat had broken out all over him, and that he was glaring at Richard as if he meant to strike him. Richard was not the one to strike.
Richard was mystified. There was something here that he could not comprehend.
“But Marcel,” he said uncertainly, “if you could just be a brother to her…”
“A brother! A brother…” Marcel was staring at him in disbelief. “If I were her brother, do you think she’d be in that situation? Up late at night…how did you put it…to let the gentlemen in?”
At this, a peculiar light came into Richard’s eye. He was silent. Marcel seated himself on the windowsill again. He was looking out at the trees. “Madame Elsie can’t force Anna Bella,” he said in a low voice. “Anna Bella has a mind of her own.”
“But who will help her to stand up to Madame Elsie, who will be on her side?” Richard asked. “That old woman is mean. She needs a brother, Marcel, you…you are like a brother to her!”
“Damn!” Marcel burst out. “Will you stop using that word!”
Richard was astonished. His brows knit. He was probing Marcel’s agitated and darkened face. It seemed a latent emotion had overcome Marcel, something inimical to the round childlike face, the clear innocent blue eyes. Richard’s lips moved as if something were just dawning on him, and then he stopped.
“We aren’t brother and sister,” Marcel whispered, the voice thick and slow. “We never were. If we had been, it would be simple, and I would do as you say. But we are not brother and sister! Anna Bella’s a woman and I’m not yet…not yet a man.” He stopped, as if so volatile that he could not continue, and then the voice even lower than before resumed. “She’ll be spoken for while I’m still sitting in the schoolroom, she’ll be spoken for before I set foot on that boat for France, she’ll be spoken for and gone and we are not brother and sister, and there is nothing, nothing that I can do!” He turned his head and once again looked out into the trees.
Richard stared at him helplessly. Every muscle in Richard’s being reflected his distress, his heavy frame sagging though he stood erect, and a subtle light in his dark eyes flickered as if detached from the older, sadder face around it.
“I didn’t understand,” he whispered. “I…didn’t understand.” He reached for his books.
For a long moment Marcel was silent.
“Now what was it you wanted to speak to me about?” Marcel asked. “This other matter that was on your mind?”
“Not now,” Richard said.
“Why not now?” Marcel asked. The tone was bitter but he didn’t mean it to be so. He was conscious of Richard standing in the doorway and suddenly, he resented Richard very much. There were times when Richard’s life struck him as profoundly simple and this could irritate him almost beyond words. “What is it?” he asked again, and for vanity, or reasons he did not know, he attempted to regain his control.
“I’ll come tomorrow, after school,” Richard said.
But Marcel’s face was calm. He wiped his forehead almost casually with his folded handkerchief, and then he made some semblance of a polite smile.
Richard hesitated. He set the books down again and clasping his hands behind him in that deferential manner he said, “It’s about Marie.”
Marcel’s expression was utterly innocent. Uncomprehending. “Marie?”
“I want to call on her,” said the deep voice, barely louder than an ordinary breath. “Your mother…I’m afraid…” He stopped. “I’m afraid,” he went on, swallowing, “that she will think it unimportant, that we are too young…but if I could just call on her, with your blessing, when you were there! I mean, however you would want it…however you…” the large shoulders shrugged. And the face was mortified.
Marcel’s eyes were wide. He had assumed that blank and obsessed expression that so often frightened people.
“Marie?” he whispered.
“Good lord, Marcel!” Richard stammered. “Good lord!”
“I’m sorry. It’s my turn not to understand,” Marcel was almost laughing. But Richard’s face was so ominous that he didn’t dare. Richard looked menacing. As if he might grab Marcel and shake him as he’d done so often in the past. “Of course you can see her, if she wants!” he smiled. A calming sensation was surprising him. Marie and Richard…But then he drew himself up. He left the window and stood firmly in the middle of the floor.