The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  He knows, she thought. He knows what happened to Sebastian—and that’s why he’s doing this. To torment me.

  But how—how could he know? He couldn’t know. It wasn’t possible. She had told no one, not even Zoe. It was just a coincidence—that’s all; it meant nothing. She forced herself to calm down, and concentrate on what he was saying.

  “When she lost her daughter at Eleusis, Demeter plunged the world into wintry darkness, until Zeus was forced to intervene. He allowed Persephone to return from the dead, every year, for six months, which is our spring and summer. And then, for the six months she resides in the Underworld, we have fall and winter. Light and dark—life and death. This journey Persephone goes on—from life to death and back again—gave birth to the cult of Eleusis. And there, at Eleusis, at the entry point to the Underworld, you too could take part in this secret rite—that gives you the same experience as the goddess.”

  He lowered his voice, and Mariana could see heads leaning forward, necks craning to catch every word. He had them in the palm of his hand.

  “The exact nature of the rites at Eleusis have remained secret for thousands of years,” he said. “The rites, the mysteries, they were ‘unspeakable’—because they were an attempt to initiate us into something beyond words. People who experienced them were never the same again. There were stories of visions and ghostly visitations and journeys to the afterlife. As the rites were open to everyone—men, women, slaves, or children—you didn’t even have to be Greek. The only requirement was that you understood Greek, so you could understand what was being said to you. In preparation, you had a drink called kykeon—which was made of barley. And on this particular barley there was a black fungus called ergot, which had hallucinogenic properties; thousands of years later, LSD would be made from it. Whether the Greeks knew it or not, they were all tripping slightly. Which might account for some of the visions.”

  Fosca said this with a wink, and it got a laugh. He let the laughter subside, and went on in a more serious tone.

  “Imagine it. Just for a second. Imagine being there—imagine the excitement and the apprehension. All those people meeting at midnight by the Oracle of the Dead—and being led by the priests into the chambers of the rock—into the caves within. The only lights were torches carried by the priests. How dark and smoky it must have been. Cold, wet stone, going deeper and deeper underground, into a vast chamber—a liminal space, on the very border of the Underworld. The Telesterion, where the mysteries took place. It was huge—forty-two towering marble columns—a forest made of stone. It could accommodate thousands of initiates at one time and was big enough to house another temple—the Anaktoron, the sacred space where only the priests themselves could enter—where the relics of the Maiden were kept.”

  Fosca’s black eyes sparkled as he spoke. He was seeing it all before him, as he conjured it up with his words, as if casting a spell.

  “We’ll never know exactly what happened there—the mystery of Eleusis remains, after all, a mystery—but at dawn, the initiates emerged into the light, having undergone an experience of death and rebirth—and with a new understanding of what it means to be human—to be alive.”

  He paused, and stared at the audience for a moment. He spoke in a different tone, now—quiet, impassioned, emotional.

  “Let me tell you something—this is what those old Greek plays are about. What it means to be human. What it means to be alive. And if you miss that when you read them—if all you see is a bunch of dead words—then you’re missing the whole damn thing. I don’t just mean in the plays—I mean in your lives, right now. If you’re not aware of the transcendent, if you’re not awake to the glorious mystery of life and death that you’re lucky enough to be part of—if that doesn’t fill you with joy and strike you with awe … you might as well not be alive. That’s the message of the tragedies. Participate in the wonder. For your sake—for Tara’s sake—live it.”

  You could have heard a pin drop. And then—sudden, loud, emotional, spontaneous applause.

  The applause went on for some time.

  11

  Zoe and Mariana queued on the stairs to exit the lecture theater.

  “Well?” Zoe said, giving her a curious look. “What did you think?”

  Mariana laughed. “You know, ‘dazzling’ is a good word.”

  Zoe smiled. “Told you so.”

  They emerged into the sunlight. Mariana considered the crowds of students milling around. “Are they here? The Maidens?”

  Zoe nodded. “Over there.”

  She pointed at six young women gathered around a bench, talking. Four of them were standing, two were sitting; a couple were smoking.

  Unlike the other students milling around the faculty, these girls weren’t scruffy or eccentrically dressed. Their clothes were elegant and looked expensive. They all took care of themselves, and were made-up, well-groomed, manicured. Most distinctive of all was the way they held themselves: with an obvious air of confidence, even superiority.

  Mariana considered them for a moment. “They don’t look friendly; you’re right.”

  “They’re not. They’re such snobs. They think they’re so ‘important.’ I guess they are—but still…”

  “Why do you say that? Why are they important?”

  Zoe shrugged. “Well…” She pointed at a tall blonde perched on the armrest of the bench. “For instance—that’s Carla Clarke. Her dad is Cassian Clarke.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, Mariana. He’s an actor. He’s really famous.”

  Mariana smiled. “I see. Okay. And the others?”

  Zoe proceeded to discreetly point out the other members of the group. “The one on the left, the pretty one with the short dark hair? That’s Natasha. She’s Russian. Her dad’s an oligarch or something—he owns half of Russia … Diya is an Indian princess—she got the highest first in the university last year. She’s practically a genius—she’s talking to Veronica—her dad is a senator—I think he ran for president—” She glanced at Mariana. “Get the idea…?”

  “I do. You mean they’re intelligent—and highly privileged.”

  Zoe nodded. “Just hearing about their holidays is enough to make you throw up. It’s always yachts and private islands and ski chalets…”

  Mariana smiled. “I can imagine.”

  “No wonder everyone hates them.”

  Mariana glanced at her. “Does everyone hate them?”

  Zoe shrugged. “Well, everyone’s jealous, anyway.”

  Mariana thought for a second. “Okay. Let’s give it a shot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s talk to them—about Tara, and Fosca.”

  “Now?” Zoe shook her head. “No way. That’ll never work.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t know you, so they’ll clam up—or turn on you—particularly if you mention the professor. Trust me, don’t.”

  “Sounds like you’re afraid of them.”

  Zoe nodded. “I am. Terrified.”

  Before Mariana could respond, she saw Professor Fosca walk out of the lecture-theater building. He went up to the girls, and they gathered closely around him, whispering intimately.

  “Come on,” said Mariana.

  “What? No, Mariana, don’t—”

  But she ignored Zoe, and marched over to Fosca and the students.

  He looked up as Mariana approached. He smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Mariana,” Fosca said. “I thought I saw you in the lecture theater.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  Mariana searched for the right words. “It was very … informative. Very impressive.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mariana looked at the young women gathered around the professor. “Are these your students?”

  Fosca glanced at the young women with a slight smile. “Some of them. Some of the more interesting ones.”

  Mariana smiled at the students. They ret
urned her gaze stonily, a blank wall.

  “I’m Mariana,” she said. “Zoe’s aunt.”

  She looked around, but Zoe hadn’t followed her over and was nowhere to be seen. Mariana turned back to the others, smiling.

  “You know, I couldn’t help but notice you at the service for Tara. You all stood out, wearing white.” She gave them a smile. “I’m curious why.”

  There was a slight hesitation. Then one of them, Diya, glanced at Fosca, and said, “It was my idea. In India, we always wear white at burials. And white was Tara’s favorite color, so…”

  She shrugged, and another girl completed the sentence for her.

  “So we wore white in her honor.”

  “She hated black,” said another.

  “I see,” said Mariana, nodding. “That’s interesting.”

  She smiled again at the girls. They didn’t smile back.

  There was a slight pause. Mariana glanced at Fosca. “Professor. I have a favor to ask.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, the dean has asked me, as a psychotherapist, to have a few informal chats with the pupils, see how they are coping with what’s happened.” She glanced at the girls. “Can I borrow some of your students?”

  Mariana said this as innocently as she could, but now, as she kept looking at the girls, she could feel Fosca’s laser-like eyes on her—staring at her, trying to size her up. She could imagine him thinking, wondering if she were genuine—or secretly trying to check up on him. He glanced at his watch.

  “We’re about to have a class,” he said. “But I daresay I can spare a couple of them.” He nodded at two of the girls. “Veronica? Serena? How about it?”

  The two young women glanced at Mariana. It was impossible to read their feelings.

  “Sure,” said Veronica with a shrug. She spoke with an American accent. “I mean, I’ve already got a shrink … But I’ll have a drink if she’s buying.”

  Serena nodded. “I will too.”

  “Okay, then. A drink, it is.” Mariana smiled at Fosca. “Thank you.”

  Fosca’s dark eyes fixed on Mariana’s face. He smiled back at her.

  “A pleasure, Mariana. I sincerely hope you get everything you want.”

  12

  Mariana found Zoe skulking by the entrance as she left the English Faculty. She asked Zoe to join them—and the offer of a drink made her cautiously accept. They made their way to a St. Christopher’s College bar that was located in a corner of Main Court.

  The college bar was entirely made of wood—old, warped, and knotted floorboards, oak-paneled walls, and a large wooden bar. Mariana and the three young women sat together at the large oak table by the window, which overlooked an ivy-covered wall outside. Mariana sat next to Zoe, opposite Veronica and Serena.

  Mariana had recognized Veronica as the young woman who gave an emotional Bible reading at Tara’s service. Her name was Veronica Drake, and she came from a wealthy American political family—her father was a senator in Washington.

  Veronica was striking, and knew it. She had long blond hair, which she had a habit of tossing and playing with as she spoke. Her makeup was heavy, emphasizing her mouth and her big blue eyes. She had a great figure, which she showed off in tight jeans. And she carried herself with confidence, with the unselfconscious sense of authority of someone who has known every advantage since birth.

  Veronica ordered a pint of Guinness, which she drank quickly. She spoke a lot. There was something ever so slightly stilted about her speech. Mariana wondered if she’d had elocution lessons. When Veronica revealed that, after graduation, she intended to be an actress, Mariana wasn’t surprised. She thought that beneath the makeup, deportment, and elocution, there was another person entirely, but Mariana had no idea who that was, and suspected Veronica might not either.

  It was Veronica’s twentieth birthday in a week’s time. She was trying to organize a party, despite the current grim circumstances in college.

  “Life must go on, right? It’s what Tara would have wanted. Anyway, I’m hiring out a private room at the Groucho Club in London. Zoe, you must come,” she added, somewhat unconvincingly.

  Zoe grunted and focused on her drink.

  Mariana glanced at the other girl—Serena Lewis, silently sipping white wine. Serena had a slim, petite build, and the way she sat there reminded Mariana of a little perching bird, watching everything but saying nothing.

  Unlike Veronica, Serena wore no makeup—not that she needed to; she had a clear and flawless complexion. Her long dark hair was tightly plaited, and she wore a pale pink blouse and a skirt that went below the knee.

  Serena was from Singapore, but had been brought up in a series of English boarding schools. She had a soft voice, with a distinctly upper-class English accent. Serena was as reserved as Veronica was forward. She kept checking her phone; her hand was drawn to it like a magnet.

  “Tell me about Professor Fosca,” said Mariana.

  “What about him?”

  “I heard he and Tara were quite close.”

  “I don’t know where you heard that. They weren’t close at all.” Veronica turned to Serena. “Were they?”

  On cue, Serena looked up from texting on her phone. She shook her head. “No, not at all. The professor was kind to Tara—but she just used him.”

  “Used him?” Mariana said. “How did she use him?”

  “Serena didn’t mean that,” Veronica said, interrupting. “She means Tara wasted his time and energy. Professor Fosca puts a lot of work into us, you know. He’s the best tutor you could find.”

  Serena nodded. “He is the most wonderful teacher in the whole world. The most brilliant. And—”

  Mariana cut short the eulogy. “I was wondering about the night of the murder.”

  Veronica shrugged. “We were with Professor Fosca all evening. He was giving us a private tutorial in his rooms. Tara was meant to be there, but she didn’t show up.”

  “And what time was this?”

  Veronica glanced at Serena. “It started at eight, right? And we went on until, what? Ten?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Ten or just after.”

  “And Professor Fosca was with you the entire time?”

  Both girls answered at once.

  “Yeah,” said Veronica.

  “No,” said Serena.

  There was a flash of irritation in Veronica’s eyes. She gave Serena an accusing look. “What are you talking about?”

  Serena looked flustered. “Oh, I—nothing. I mean, he only left for a couple of minutes, that’s all. Just to have a cigarette outside.”

  Veronica backed down. “Yeah, he did. I forgot. He was only gone a minute.”

  Serena nodded. “He doesn’t smoke inside when I’m there because I have asthma. He’s really considerate.”

  Her phone suddenly beeped as a text came through. She pounced on it. Her face lit up as she read the message.

  “I’ve got to go,” Serena said. “I have to meet someone.”

  “Oh, what?” Veronica rolled her eyes. “The mystery man?”

  Serena glared at her. “Stop it.”

  Veronica laughed, and said in a singsong voice, “Serena has a secret boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “But he is a secret—she won’t tell us who he is. Even me.” She gave a knowing wink. “I wonder … is he married?”

  “No, he’s not married,” said Serena, going red. “He’s not anything—just a friend. I have to go.”

  “Actually, so do I,” said Veronica. “I have a rehearsal.” She smiled sweetly at Zoe. “It’s such a shame you didn’t get into The Duchess of Malfi. It’s going to be an amazing production. Nikos, the director, is a genius. He’s going to be really famous one day.” Veronica glanced triumphantly at Mariana. “I’m playing the Duchess.”

  “Of course you are. Well, thank you for talking to me, Veronica.”

  “No problem.”

  Veronica gave Mariana a sly look; then she lef
t the bar, followed by Serena.

  “Ugh…” Zoe pushed away her empty glass and gave a long sigh. “Told you. Totally toxic.”

  Mariana didn’t disagree. She didn’t like them much either.

  More important, Mariana had the feeling, honed from years of working with patients, that Veronica and Serena had both been lying to her.

  But about what—and why?

  13

  For years, I was afraid even to open the cupboard that contained it.

  But today I found myself standing on a chair, reaching up and taking hold of the small wicker box—this collection of things I wanted to forget.

  I sat by the light, and opened it. I sifted through the contents: the sad, lonely love letters I wrote to a couple of girls but never sent—a couple of childish stories about farm life—some bad poems I had forgotten about.

  But the last thing in this Pandora’s box was something I remembered all too well. The brown leather journal I kept that summer, when I was twelve—the summer I lost my mother.

  I opened the journal and flicked through the pages—long entries written in immature, childish handwriting. It looked so trivial. But if it weren’t for the contents of these pages, my life would be very different.

  Sometimes it was hard to decipher the writing. It was erratic and scrawled, particularly toward the end, as if written in some haste, in a fit of madness—or sanity. As I sat there, it was as if a fog started to lift.

  A path appeared, leading all the way back to that summer. Back to my youth.

  It’s a familiar journey. I make it often enough in my dreams: turning onto the winding dirt road, heading toward the farmhouse.

  I don’t want to go back.

  I don’t want to remember …

  And yet—I need to. Because this is more than just a confession. This is a search for what was lost, for all the vanished hopes and forgotten questions. It’s a quest for explanation: for the terrible secrets hinted at in that child’s journal—which I now consult like a fortune-teller, peering into a crystal ball.

  Except I don’t seek the future.