by Sally Green
“I’m pleased to meet you.” He puts his hand up to his glasses and takes hold of them as if he’s going to take them off, but he doesn’t. “That sounds very English, doesn’t it? I’m very pleased to meet you, Nathan.”
And instantly I’m pissed off.
He laughs. “You’re funny, though. Very funny. I like you. You scowl like . . . it’s a proper scowl.” He laughs again.
I cut an oblong of butter. Then another. Then another.
“Why do you keep your gloves on?”
“Why don’t you take your sunglasses off?”
He laughs. Then he takes one of my pieces of butter and puts it on his bread. When he has finished eating he says, “I’m Gabriel.” He pronounces it funny.
“Gabrielle?”
He laughs again. “Yes, Gabriel.”
I put a section of butter on some bread and try it. It’s good, creamy.
“How come you know my name?”
He smiles. “Everyone knows your name.”
“No, they don’t.”
He sips his coffee and swirls it around and sips it again. “Okay. You’re right, not everyone. But all Black Witches in Europe, some Black Witches in the States, most White Witches in Europe . . . most White Witches everywhere. Few fains, though, very few fains.” He shrugs. “So . . . no, not everyone.”
And I see this famous person in his mirrored glasses looking back at me, not scowling but looking pretty miserable. I look away, out of the window to the distant section of mountains.
“Is it that bad, being Nathan?”
Every White Witch I have ever met has known who I was. One look at me and . . . it’s like I’ve got a big sign on my head. It seems it’s going to be the same in the world of Black Witches.
I turn back to him. “I’d prefer to be anonymous.”
“It won’t happen.” He’s pushing his hair back off his face but at least he’s stopped smiling. “Not with your father being who he is.”
And his father and his father and his father and his father . . .
“Who’s your father?” I ask. “Anyone I’d have heard of?”
“No, definitely not. And my mother . . . no again. Two very fine Black Witches, but not famous. When I say fine I mean . . . respectable . . . for Blacks. My father is living in America now. He had to leave after he killed my grandmother—my mother’s mother.” He shrugs. “I should explain that it was self-defense; my grandmother was attacking my father. It’s complicated . . . She blamed him for my mother’s death.” He swirls his empty coffee cup. “Anyway, they are not famous.”
“Violent, though.”
“In both violence and fame, your bloodline outdoes mine.”
Gabriel
I am not supposed to leave the apartment except to sleep on the terrace. I’m sleeping okay. The usual nightmares.
I sleep inside on the sofa some afternoons. Most of the time I’m alone. In a way this is worse than the cage. At least there I could run. Here I just lie around.
Every day I ask, “When can I see Mercury?”
And every day Gabriel replies, “Maybe tomorrow.”
I’ve told him that I need three gifts and that it’s less than a month until my birthday. He keeps asking me other stuff, though, stuff about me: where I’ve been the last few years, if I’ve had contact with the Council, with Hunters. I don’t tell him anything, all that is private.
I see Gabriel in the mornings. He brings shopping, eats breakfast with me and then we wash up. Sometimes he reminds me of Celia with her chores. He always washes and I dry. Every day he says, “I will wash today. You mustn’t get your gloves wet.” He says it with a look of deep concern. When I give him the finger he just laughs.
I haven’t taken my gloves or scarf off. I sleep in them . . . live in them. If Gabriel saw my tattoos or the scars on my wrist I’d get a load of questions and I don’t want that.
After washing up he hangs around for a bit then leaves the apartment and I only see him the next morning at breakfast. I don’t think he’s slept in the bedroom since I’ve been here, but I can’t be sure. He never makes the bed; sometimes he lies on it reading.
Gabriel starts after breakfast on the first day with his questions, but I just concentrate on drying the crockery. When it dawns on him that I’m not going to tell him my life story, he tries different subjects: first off it’s books. He’s reading a really good book, Kerouac, whatever that is.
“Do you have a favorite?”
I’m busy drying a plate, slowly, round and round, getting it really dry, and I don’t reply. So Gabriel lists his top books. He can’t pin down one favorite. He lists a few French ones I’ve never heard of, and then some English ones I’ve never heard of—though I have heard of Wuthering Heights—and then he’s on to American authors. I’m not sure if he’s showing off or if he’s always like this.
When he finally shuts up I put the very dry plate on to the top of the pile of very dry plates and say, “I’ve never read a book.”
His left hand is in the washing-up bowl, suds around his wrist. It has stopped washing.
“I do have a favorite though. Solzhenitsyn. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. You read that one?”
He shakes his head.
I shrug.
“How can it be your favorite . . . if you’ve never read it?”
And I want to yell at him, “’Cause the woman who kept me chained up in a cage was a Russian-loving lunatic, you stupid, spoiled Swiss idiot.” I want to scream and shout. And next thing the plates are all smashed on the floor and I don’t know how I got so angry so quickly. I’m breathing hard and Gabriel’s standing there, with suds dripping off his fingers.
* * *
Next day at breakfast, on new plates, Gabriel isn’t talking; he’s reading Solzhenitsyn.
I eat the bread, drink the coffee, look out of the window.
I say, “Can you read all right with your sunglasses on?”
He just gives me the finger.
When we’re washing up, and he’s put the book down, he has another go at me, about art this time. He goes on and on about Monet and Manet and stuff like that. I don’t know what he’s talking about. All Black Witches can’t be like this, can they?
I tell him, “I don’t need a lecture about art. I need to get out of this stupid apartment and see Mercury. There’s a deadline.” I throw a few swear words in there too.
When he’s gone I remember a book Arran gave me once. It had sketches in it by da Vinci. I’d almost forgotten about that book. They were good sketches. I find a pencil in a drawer but there’s no paper, so I rip a blank page out of Gabriel’s book.
After I’ve finished the drawing I burn it. But the fire smokes badly.
* * *
At breakfast on day three he says he’s finished One Day in the Life of . . . and he likes it. Then he asks me why I like it.
And of course there are a million reasons. Does he expect some fancy reply or something?
“So,” he asks, “why do you like it?”
I say, “Because he survives.”
Gabriel nods. “Yes, I’m glad about that too.”
While we wash up he talks about climbing. He really likes climbing. He stops washing and starts to climb up the kitchen cupboards. He’s good . . . precise and fast. He says his favorite place for climbing is Gorges du Verdon, which is in France.
He asks me where my favorite place is.
I say, “Wales.”
When he goes I rip another blank page out of his book and draw him climbing up the kitchen cupboards.
* * *
Day four and Gabriel’s on to poetry. I’ve got to give him ten out of ten for trying, but if he’s attempting to piece together the story of my life, poetry isn’t going to add much. I mean—poetry! Then I start laughing. Really laughing. We�
�re Black Witches, hiding out from Hunters, White Witches fear us . . . and we’re washing up and talking about poetry. I bend over at the waist I’m laughing so much. My stomach aches.
Gabriel watches. He doesn’t laugh with me. I don’t think he knows what I find so funny, but he smiles. I manage to calm down, but I keep sniggering like a kid every now and then while Gabriel is talking about some great poet. He even recites a poem. It’s in French, so it’s rather lost on me, but I don’t laugh at that.
I ask about his accent. His mother was English and his father is Swiss. Gabriel was born in France and lived in America with his father and younger sister for a year. His English is excellent, but his American is better, and he speaks English with a weird French-American accent. He says that he came back to Switzerland after he got his Gift. He hasn’t said what his Gift is, and I don’t ask.
That afternoon I’ve had enough. I sneak out, go down to the lake, and then head out of town toward the hills. When I get back I can’t find the right road and have to go down to the lake to get my bearings. People are hurrying home or into bars and cafes. They each have a phone hiss to them and the city is a low engine rumble in my head. I walk along the road that skirts the lake. The mountains are now hidden in low cloud, and although I know they are there I can’t see them; even the huge lake is diminished to a pond edge by a bank of mist over it. The boats on the quayside are vague shapes in the fog. I can hear two voices, men speaking French. They go quiet.
I turn and see a figure in black watching me, and as slow as I can make myself do it, while a gallon of adrenaline is urging me to flee, I saunter away. A whistle sounds: a Hunter’s call to her partner. Now I run.
I keep to the backstreets and find an entrance to a bar and hang around in the corner where I can see into the street through the window. The street is busy with fains. Eventually I step out and make my way cautiously back to the apartment, but I don’t see the Hunter again.
I’m back just before dark and go straight on to the terrace.
I know they saw me. I’m sure I lost them, but they know I’m here now. Somehow they knew it was me.
I dream. I’m still running in that blasted alley, but now it’s different; for the first time in the dream I remember to look at the end of the road. I look and look and there are the ordinary buildings and ordinary fains and a bus and some cars, but I still can’t reach them. I hear Hunters behind me, shouting, “Get him! Rip his arms out!” And I panic and run faster and they’re shouting so close behind me and I can’t run any faster . . . and then I wake up.
Gabriel is on his haunches watching me.
I tell him, not in a nice way, to leave me alone and then lie back down and close my eyes. I’m not sure I should tell him what happened today. I’m not supposed to leave the apartment, but maybe if I tell him about the Hunters he’ll take me to Mercury. I decide to tell him. But when I open my eyes Gabriel has gone.
* * *
Day five. I’m building up to tell Gabriel about the Hunters while we’re washing up. He passes me a cup to dry and as I take it he holds onto it for a moment before releasing, so I have to pull it a little from him, and he says, “Switzerland is a great country. There are few White Witches, none in Geneva, and the Black Witches here can be trusted. But there are Half Bloods who will sell you out if they see you. Hunters use them.”
That’s Gabriel’s way of saying that he knows I left the apartment.
I dry the cup.
He says, “Geneva is a wonderful city. Don’t you think?”
That’s another way of him saying he knows I left the apartment.
I swear at him.
“You’re not supposed to leave the apartment.” And that’s the final way he has of saying he knows I left the apartment.
“Then take me to Mercury.”
“How do I know you’re not a spy? How do I know you didn’t go to meet some Hunter?”
I just stare at him. In his sunglasses I see this lone figure staring back.
“How do I know, if you won’t talk to me?”
I swear at him again and go out onto the terrace.
When I come back into the apartment Gabriel has gone.
I don’t know what to do about Gabriel, but I’m not about to share my life story with him, that’s for sure. I decide to mark time with five-bar gates like they do in prison movies. I cut short vertical lines into the wall near the window and scar in a deep gouge diagonally across them.
I stare out of the window for a while and do some push-ups. Then I stare out of the window. Then I do sit-ups and a few more push-ups. More staring out of the window and after that it’s time for a bit of shadow-boxing. Then back to check out the view.
I don’t think me telling Gabriel anything will make any difference anyway. It could all be lies. He must know that.
I flop on to the sofa. Then get up. Then throw myself back down.
There’s no way I’m going to tell Gabriel anything real about me.
I get up. I need something to do.
I decide to sort the fire out, which means standing in the fireplace with my head up the chimney. There needs to be more draw, but I don’t know how to create it, so I just tidy up in there, cleaning the soot out as much as I can, finding a slate that is sticking out of the bricks and jiggling it around a little, and then finding a loose brick and a large, flat tin hidden high in a narrow gap above it.
With the chimney cleared and the slate back in place the fire blazes, but I am black with soot. I need to wash everything. I get in the bath with my clothes on. The bath is an old-fashioned tub on ball-and-claw feet; it’s deep but not very wide. As soon as I get in the water turns gray. I peel my clothes off and throw them onto the terrace to sort out later. I have a change of clothes. I even have two pairs of socks.
I run another bath. There’s a little nailbrush and I scrub at my feet and hands, but the dirt is in the skin and won’t budge.
I submerge myself and hold my breath. I can do it for over two minutes, nearly three if I get the breathing right beforehand. But I’m not as fit as I was under Celia’s regime.
I dry myself and put clean jeans on, and check out my tattoos. They are the same. The scars on my back seem worse but they’re not. How thick they are always surprises me. The line of scars on my right arm is faint, white on the paler skin there, but my wrist can only be described as an ugly mess. My hand works fine, though, and my fist is solid.
When I lean over the basin and look in the mirror, my face looks the same, only more miserable somehow, grayer. It looks old. I don’t look sixteen. There are gray circles under my eyes. The black, empty pieces that move around in my eyes seem to be bigger. The blackness of my eyes is not like the darkness up the chimney; it’s a blacker black than that. I move my head to the side, wondering if I can catch any glints, but instead I see Gabriel standing in the doorway staring at me, mirrored glasses reflecting back.
“How long have you been there?” I ask.
“You’ve done a good job with the fire.” He takes a step farther into the bathroom.
“Get out.” I’m surprised by how angry I am.
“Did you find anything?”
“I told you to get out.”
“And I asked if you found anything.” For the first time he sounds like a Black Witch.
I turn and stride to him; my left hand is around his throat, and I’m pushing him by the shoulder against the wall. He doesn’t resist. I hold him there and say, “Yes, I found something.” And all I see is myself looking back at me. My eyes are black with silver reflected in them but it’s just from the bathroom light. I don’t want to hurt him. I manage to loosen my grip on his neck and then walk back to the sink.
“Did you read them?” He is coughing a bit as he speaks.
I lean forward over the basin, grabbing its sides. I’m concentrating on looking down the plughole at the di
rt and the blackness, but I can feel his eyes on my back.
“Did you read them?”
“No! Now get out!” I shout and look up in the mirror.
Gabriel says, “Nathan,” and he steps forward again and takes his sunglasses off. And his eyes are not those of a Black Witch.
He’s a fain.
A fain!
So what was all that talk about being the son of two very respectable Black Witches?
And I’m shouting, “Get out!” as I hit him and he’s on the floor, blood on his face, and I’m swearing and using all the worst words I can think of and he’s lying on his side, curled up, and I stomp on his knees and I hate it that he lied to me and I hate how I was thinking he was okay but he’s just some lying fain and I have to walk out to the kitchen before I really hurt him. Then I walk back and lean over, grab his hair and shout at him. Properly shout, ’cause I can still see him staring at my back. And I hate it that he was staring. I hate that. And I bang his head on the floor and I don’t know why I’m doing that, except I’m so angry. I’m still shaking when I walk out of the bathroom again.
I pace around the sofa, but I have to go back and get my shirt.
Gabriel’s groaning a bit. He looks a mess.
I slide down to the floor next to him.
* * *
We’re sitting at the table, by the window. Gabriel is wringing out a cloth into a bowl of water that’s pink with his blood. His left eye is swollen shut. His right is a light brown with a few flecks of golden-green in it but no sparks. Definitely a fain eye. But he has told me that he wasn’t lying: he is a Black Witch but he has a fain body.
“So you can’t heal at all?”
He shakes his head.
He says that his Gift is that he can transform to be like other people. It’s the same Gift as Jessica’s, but he is different from her, opposite to her. He explains, “I like people. They’re interesting. I can be male or female, old or young. I can find out what it’s like to be different people. The only problem is once I became fain, to see what that was like, I couldn’t transform back.”
