by Anne Rice
“She’ll be fourteen soon. You should really wait until then,” he said seriously. “There’ll be a party for her naturally and of course you’ll come. After that…anytime. Before that, well, if you wish, I’ll see.”
“But your mother…”
“Don’t worry about my mother,” Marcel smiled. “Just leave that to me.”
Richard, miserably uncomfortable and relieved at the same time, now moved to go. He made a quick bow much like the bow he’d given Marcel at the gate and turned to the porch.
“Well,” Marcel said.
Richard looked back.
“You see what a good brother I can be?”
For a long time after Richard had gone, Marcel sat at the window looking out on those moving drifts of ivy and the winding, knotted branches of the old figs. Then wiping his face again with his handkerchief, he buttoned his jacket and went out.
In the dappled shade of the overhanging magnolias two white men sat at the painted wrought-iron tables of Madame Elsie’s courtyard, their tall glasses of bourbon a pale amber in the afternoon light. A row of airy crepe myrtle trees separated this small court from the path to the back outbuilding where Anna Bella lived. And its long porches were screened by these same light green branches though Marcel could see that the windows were open, the lace curtains drawn back. But when he noticed the white gentlemen with their drinks, and heard their low voices, he paused, quite invisible beyond the edge of the flagstones, and stood still looking up at that distant porch. He was barely conscious of their drawling French, the playful compulsive tapping of a key against the rim of a glass.
Then he went up the gravel path to the stair.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure in the kitchen door far across the yard, but he took no notice of it as he mounted the steps. The figure rushed forward with lifted skirts. But he was already on the porch before he heard her hiss for his attention, the snapping of her fingers, the whispered and urgent: “Marcel!”
He was staring through the low windows of Madame Elsie’s sitting room as he moved toward the door. And he saw Anna Bella on the settee, her lap covered with a long thick ribbon of white lace. It had been months since he had laid eyes on her. He no longer went to Mass at all with his mother and sister and their paths did not cross. But at this moment when he saw her, the love he felt for her was so exquisite that it left him weak. And he felt the ugly sting of shame. How could she know what he was feeling? How could she know why he had never come? How could she know when Richard didn’t know and Marie didn’t know and he himself could only dimly understand? He did not plan what he would say now. He didn’t rehearse his words. He knew only that he must be with her, he must sit beside her in this room, close to her, and somehow make her understand. Mais, non, we are not children. And no longer children, what have we become? Oh, there were so many other moments, so many other times when they had opened their souls to one another, when in those long and mysterious tête-à-têtes they had come on truths together that neither, perhaps, would have ever known alone. So surely now they could take this step together. If any two people on earth could lay bare the adult travesties that had befallen them, entangling their lives, separating them, he and Anna Bella could. Just take her hand.
He moved forward, his fist already tight to knock, when suddenly inside the window just beside the door, a dark head distinguished itself from the familiar shapes of the room. A young white man, his black whiskers sleek and shining, his thick hair parted in the middle and curling fastidiously above his collar gazed up with severe hawk eyes. Marcel drew back and, his legs weakening under him, quickly left the porch.
He was still trembling when he reached his own room. He sat at his desk, the notebook for the day’s class where he had left it, the Greek text, the case for his new pens. He moved to take a pen, to dip it in the ink. But then his arm tightened around his waist and putting his head down, he shut his eyes and dissolved into private tears.
IV
IT WAS THE WITCHING HOUR, or so it seemed. Lights out, and only the far-off sounds: a woman laughing hysterically, the crack of a gun. It seemed for a while there had been the faint thudding of drums, those persistent voodoo drums, from a meeting lost within the maze of the neighborhood fences and walls. Marcel awoke. Lisette was standing over him, he was hot, covered with sweat, he stretched uneasily in his clothes.
He had fallen asleep, his books spread at the foot of the bed. He had been poring over his Greek, as he had done every night for three weeks since the school opened, striving to maintain his precarious lead at the top of the class, and now with some measure of relief he realized this was Friday night again, he could rest though the work was unfinished, he wouldn’t be on the rack again until Monday morn.
“All right,” he said grumpily to Lisette, ready for her lecture. He struggled up, stiffened, and wanted to fall back again asleep.
“That teacher wants you,” she said.
“What?” He had his face in the pillow again, a warm rumpled pillow. The heat was unbearable in the little room. “What?” he rose up.
“He sent that no ‘count Bubbles down here, said for you to come on up to his place if you were awake, and if your Maman said it was all right. Well, your Maman’s asleep. It’s nine o’clock. You going or not?”
“Yes,” he said, “of course I’m going. Get me a fresh shirt.” He was truly asleep. But he hadn’t really spoken alone to Christophe since school started. He’d been dreaming of men on horseback for no reason at all. “You scared me,” he murmured.
“How did I scare you?” she stood in front of the open armoire. His clothes were peeling off, soiled by the summer heat and his own skin. At the end of the class today that tall polished Augustin Dumanoir, the colored planter’s son, had said with a sigh that the August heat was unbearable, perhaps the school should have opened in the fall. But then it was all worth it, really, heat or no heat. Marcel knew why Christophe had not waited. Christophe had had to prove to himself that the school could be done, and to prove it to the Englishman, who was still lodged at the St. Charles, as well. The Englishman was no longer coming to the townhouse. But Christophe, at the dinner hour, was seen more than once to meet him a block from the house and walk with him fast uptown.
“I thought Monsieur Philippe had come, that’s how you scared me,” Marcel sighed. He must still be asleep. His own words surprised him. He had thought Monsieur Philippe was far from his thoughts, but now something of the atmosphere of his dream returned to him, a man riding in country fields, but it was all mixed up with that Augustin Dumanoir, who lingered after class each day to chat with Christophe as though they were both men. That boy had brought his hounds with him to New Orleans, and Marcel had seen him early last Saturday riding out with a clatter over the cobblestoned street, his hunting gun in its holster, his lean bronze face squinting in the sun. The horse was magnificent. The hounds had been streaking alongside it, darting in and out of the sparse crowds. But it was Monsieur Philippe’s presence that lingered from the dream, and the old fear, had Monsieur Philippe been angered by Cecile’s note? He had received the note for sure, the notary let Marcel know that, though how it was accomplished Marcel did not ask. The notary had been prying, where did Marcel study now, what was his teacher’s name, and how old was his sister, my, she was lovely. “But I’m in the new school,” Marcel thought, straining to open his eyes. He drank the hot coffee Lisette had just given him. “I’m at the top of my class, and Monsieur Philippe knows of Christophe.” He shut his eyes tight and opened them again. The coffee, sweet with sugar and cream, went down deliciously.
His work these three weeks had taxed him to the fullest: his old habits had given him a bad time. He dreamed too much, thought too much, slept too much, had to struggle desperately to complete his assignments, his head ached. Yet in some quiet way he was happier than he had ever been. The day-to-day life in the classroom had surpassed his most romantic dreams. Christophe was infinite in his patience with the basics, but it wa
s when he spoke of vast systems of ideas that he came into his own. History wasn’t date and name to him; rather he spoke of cultural cataclysm, revolutions that divided the world in art, architecture, all expressions of the human mind. Marcel was dazed. He should have liked to wander through the streets again, thinking luxuriously for hours of a mere sentence which Christophe had spoken, a mere phrase. His only pain was the same pain he had experienced that first day: Christophe was his teacher now, formal and demanding as with everyone, adding no particular warmth of inflection to his voice when he called on Marcel by name. There was no time to say even a word to him in the afternoons, and calling at the townhouse on Sundays, he had twice found Christophe gone, and Juliet, wild-eyed and worn, much resembling her former self, had worried him with her indifferent invitation to come in. And it was the Englishman himself who, meeting Marcel one late afternoon when the school let out, explained to him sarcastically that indeed, he was no longer even “permitted” to visit Christophe in his mother’s house.
There was but one treasured consolation: Marcel led the class. Each morning when their corrected assignments were returned to them, and the grades announced, Marcel’s was the highest. His translations were perfect, his geometry completely correct. He wished he could tell Christophe with a swelling heart how much the teacher’s skill meant to him, his infinite patience with the most obtuse questions, his repeated inquiry, “Now is there anyone who does not understand, tell me if you do not understand.” Monsieur De Latte had punished questions, berating the boy who asked them as lazy or dim-witted. The pretense of understanding when he did not understand was something that Marcel had to unlearn.
“What time is it?” he asked Lisette. The fresh shirt was cool but stiff.
“Nine o’clock, I told you,” she said. “And Michie Philippe’s not in town.” He looked up at her as he buttoned his vest, saw her face sullen in the lamplight, the pecan skin with its rash of freckles glinting red like her copper hair.
“How do you know he’s not in town?” he asked wearily. She pretended to know everything, where everyone was, what went on. Christophe’s words came back to him, every slave on this block knew you were here that afternoon with my mother.
“Drink another cup.” She handed him the coffee, and put his new boots beside the bed. “I haven’t had time to get to those others, they’re crusty. What with your sister’s birthday coming I don’t have time to breathe.”
He nodded. His new boots. They hurt like hell. “But why is the birthday party being held at Tante Colette’s?” he asked wearily. He too didn’t have time to breathe. Marie’s birthday was the fifteenth of August, the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, it was the birthday and name day that always brought the most elaborate celebrations, with a special cake, a reception, even presents for the slaves. And this year it was quite special because Marie was to be fourteen; she would become a young woman as if she weren’t that already, as if Lisette didn’t spend all day these days ironing her clothes, as if Richard hadn’t come twice already to call. Lisette, who had loathed the simplest personal tasks for Cecile, went everywhere with Marie, was becoming, on her own, Marie’s maid.
“You don’t even know what goes on under your nose,” Lisette said. “Your mother says the cottage is too small.” There was contempt when she had said those words, “your mother.” “Don’t stay there too long,” she whispered. It was a strange shift, but she still spoke to him protectively as if he were a child.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “I’ll do as I damn well please.” This affair of the cottage being too small, it didn’t make sense.
“And if your mother wakes up, that’s what I’m to tell her, he’s off doing what he damn well pleases?”
“If you want to be mean about it,” he said. He pulled on his boots, combed his hair. “Is Maman angry with Marie?” He asked it over his shoulder, as if it were not important at all.
Lisette made a short sound, not quite a laugh. “Don’t be long,” she said again in that same whisper.
“Now, what the hell is really on your mind?” he stopped as he put the comb in his pocket. It seemed the breeze had shifted, or some intervening sound had died away, so that faintly again he heard those voodoo drums. “You want to sneak away, don’t you?” he whispered. “You want to go to that meeting, wherever it is…”
The drums were louder, or was it just that they had gotten a hold on his mind? They had a maddening monotonous rhythm.
“Don’t you ever wonder what goes on there?” she asked. Her tone was insinuating.
He shot her an indignant glance. “Why should I care about that barbarous superstition?” he demanded. He could feel his eyes become hard. But she didn’t budge.
There was something insolent and cunning in her face, something proud. “You’d be surprised, Michie, what fine company is dancing with those savages,” she said with a slow smile, “even such fine gentlemen as yourself!”
He looked at her. At the smile on her face, the manner in which she stood against the door with her arms folded.
“You hate us, don’t you, Lisette?” he whispered. “You hate all of us, even Marie…And if we were white we could beat you twice a day, and you’d lick our boots.”
The smile died on her face. He was trembling. She stared at him almost blankly. And he felt a chill pass over him. Never had things gone so far between them before, never had he spoken these sentiments even to himself. But he was amazed to see the change in her. Her brows came together, it was as if he had struck her.
“I like you well enough, Michie,” she said softly. “Haven’t I always done right by you?” She was shaken, positively shaken. “You don’t know my pain, Michie!” She looked away.
“I’m sorry, Lisette,” he said. Flustered, his hands formed fists. He’d hurt her all right when he never dreamed he had the power to do so. She was playing with her earring, her head to one side, she would not look at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “And you’ve taken fine care of Marie these last few weeks…” he murmured.
A sullen smile showed gradually on her heavy features. “Well now,” she whispered, “doesn’t that just make your mother boil!”
The slave, Bubbles, admitted him through the side door, and with the eyes of a cat led him through complete darkness to the stairs. “You go there, Michie,” he whispered, and appeared to drop off silently as if in a void.
In all the time he had worked with Christophe, Marcel had not returned to the second floor. A bare bit of moonlight showed him the paneled door to Juliet’s room was closed, and turning, his hand on the newel post, he saw the swell of a lamp far down the hall. Christophe beckoned him, and when he reached the door, he realized he was entering Christophe’s room.
The teacher sat at his desk against the far wall, the lamp on a shelf slightly above his head. And above that lamp, covering the wall as high as a man might reach, were pages fluttering from tacks, all covered with a purple script. This writing had the obvious form of verse, with words crossed out here and there, lines scribbled in the broad margins. And beneath them, the desk itself was hopelessly cluttered with opened books, heaps of paper, feather pens, a chaos utterly different from the shining neatness of the classroom on the floor below, and a chaos that seemed to emanate out from the desk enveloping this entire room. The bed itself was unmade, papers were weighted down in random piles over the humps of the thrown-back spread, and an ashtray had spilled there distributing burnt matches and cigar butts. But it was comfortable, marvelously comfortable, all of it, the mantel crowded with figurines, the walls hung with maps and engravings helter-skelter, and before the grate was a rumpled pillow, and an empty glass, as though disdaining the bed, Christophe sometimes slept on the cooler floor.
He himself was dressed, dressed as formally as if he might be conducting class, and he sat with his back to the desk, one arm leaning on it, his hands clasped. He looked as poised and composed as he had in that small black and white Daguerreotype that Ju
liet had shown to Marcel the first afternoon in her room. Christophe had since presented the same picture to the class, explaining what it was, and how, through light and chemicals, the image had been made. Everyone had been amazed, and this lecture was but one of several that week on the new inventions and developments in Paris, a part of their education that kept the boys enthralled.
But something was wrong with Christophe. He sat too still, was too perfectly dressed, stood out too clearly amid the room’s disorder, face in shadow against the lamp.
“I’ve missed you at supper,” Christophe said.
“I’ve missed you, too, Monsieur,” Marcel said. “I didn’t want to disturb you, and I’ve been studying till midnight every night.”
“It’s hard for you, too hard,” Christophe said. “And one of these days I want to have a talk with you about all that staring out of the window you do in class, but not now. You’re my star, besides.”
Marcel flushed.
“Right now, scolding you for daydreaming is the farthest thing from my mind. I wish I knew what was on my mind, then I wouldn’t be rambling about things that don’t matter to either of us. Sit down.”
Marcel took the armchair near the grate. He couldn’t keep his eyes from those fluttering poems. And when Christophe said nothing, he asked gently, “But what is it, Christophe?”
Christophe sighed. “Well, how has it been, Marcel? Have I been a good teacher, is the school worth a damn?”
Marcel was astonished. A good teacher. Everyone was talking of Christophe. Rudolphe stopped at the cottage gate to sing his praises and even the high-strung and spoilt Fantin was actually attempting to learn to read. Augustin Dumanoir and his cronies had sent back to the plantations for their trunks.