by Clive Barker
But she was getting ahead of herself. Her first concern was to preserve her life and sanity in the midst of a situation that was far from safe. She could still see the subtle gleam of lunacy in Mitchell’s eyes, and the curl of his lips as he took his fingers out of her.
Feels like a fucking grave . . .
She shuddered, thinking of what he’d said. Not just of its easy cruelty—though that was horrible enough—but the fact that it seemed to taint her with death. Was that what Mitch really believed? Did he look at her and see a woman who was already halfway to joining Margie on the Golden Floor? It would be nice and convenient for him if she died, wouldn’t it? He could play the grieving soulmate for a little while, and then move on to find himself a more accommodating wife—one who’d pop out little Gearys on a regular basis and who wouldn’t be too critical of her husband’s lack of passion.
This was probably all paranoia, she told herself, but that didn’t make her any less fretful. And to add to her sum of anxieties, there was the fact that Mitchell now had the journal. It was plainly important to him; and to Margie too apparently, or else why had she gone to so much trouble to hide it? What was the significance of its contents, that Mitchell had been so happy to have it in his hands?
Well, there was no use sitting and stewing over it all; what was done was done. The best thing to do, she decided, was to get the hell out of the apartment and walk.
She quickly got dressed, and headed down to the street. The day was fine and bright, and she knew as soon as she started walking that she’d made a smart decision. Her spirits lifted, especially once she got into the crowds on Fifth Avenue. There was a pleasant sense of anonymity there; she was just one of thousands striding the sidewalks, enjoying the day.
The subject of Mitch and his vile talk didn’t come back into her head, but thoughts of Galilee did. The mysteries that attended him didn’t trouble her as they had previously. In the open air, with the bustle of people all around her, they seemed simply intriguing: inexplicable, even magical, elements in her personal landscape. What was he, this man who spoke of shark gods as though they were his bosom buddies? Who had lived several lifetimes, wandering the oceans of the world? Who was so lonely, and yet took no comfort in the presence of other living beings?
She wished she’d quizzed him more closely when they’d been together, particularly about his family. Assuming that he’d been telling the truth when he’d said he had no grandparents, what did that imply about his mother and father? That they were somehow original souls, the Adam and Eve of their species? If so, then what did that make Galilee? Cain or Abel? The first murderer? The first victim?
Biblical parallels wouldn’t have seemed so pertinent but for the fact of the man’s name. He was called Galilee, after all; somebody in his family knew their Gospels.
Well, whatever he was, whatever the nature of his mystery, she didn’t expect to be solving it any time soon. The journal’s contents had only served to confirm the suspicion that his path and hers went in very different directions. She would not be sitting down to talk about his name or his childhood anytime soon. He was gone from her life, perhaps forever, and she had no way back to him. No means of tracing him except through the coils of Geary family history, where she was now effectively forbidden to go. She was an exile, like him. He on the water, she on Fifth Avenue; he alone, she surrounded by people: but still, in the end, outcasts.
Walking gave her a hunger, so she dropped into Alfredo’s—a little Italian place she’d gone more than once with Mitchell—for lunch. She arrived thinking she’d have a salad, but when she scanned the menu her appetite sharpened, and she ended up with a plate of spaghetti followed by profiteroles. What now? she wondered as she ate. She couldn’t walk the streets of New York forever, sooner or later she was going to have to decide where her best hope of safety lay.
Her espresso was not brought by her waiter but by the owner of the establishment, Alfredo himself: a round, pink, cherubic man who had never lost his thick Italian accent. Indeed he probably nurtured it, as part of his charm.
“Mrs. Geary . . .” he said, with great gravity, “ . . . we are all so very, very sad when we hear about your sister-in-law. She came in once, with the older Mrs. Geary—Loretta—and we all just fell in love with her.”
Loretta and Margie, sharing a bottle of wine and reminiscences? It was hard to picture.
“Does Loretta come in here often?”
“Now and again,” Alfredo said.
“And what do you make of her? Does everybody love Loretta too?”
The plainness of the question defeated Alfredo’s considerable powers of diplomacy. He opened his mouth, but no answer came.
“No instant love for Loretta, huh?”
“She is very powerful lady,” Alfredo finally replied. “Back home in Italy we have such women. Very strong, in their hearts. They are the real power in the family. All the men, they make the noise, they make the violence sometimes, but the women just go on in their way, you know, being strong.”
That certainly described Loretta: hard to love, but impossible to ignore. Perhaps it was time Rachel paid her a visit; followed up on the conversation they’d had just after Margie’s death, when Loretta had so very clearly laid out her vision of the way things would be, and had asked Rachel to side with her. Was it too late to say yes? She didn’t particularly like the prospect of asking for Loretta’s help; but the woman had known whereof she spoke that night. We need each other, she’d said; for self-protection. Whatever your dense husband thinks, he’s not going to be running the Geary empire.
Why not? Rachel had asked her.
And the answer? Oh, Rachel remembered it well, and with the passage of time it began to look like an astonishing prophecy.
“ . . . he’s inheriting a lot more than he’ll be able to deal with, Loretta had said. “He’ll crack. He’s already cracking . . .”
She thanked Alfredo for a delightful lunch, and went out into the busy street. The espresso had given her a fair buzz, but it wasn’t just coffee that quickened her step as she headed north; it was the sudden realization that she had, after all, a place of refuge, if it wasn’t too late to request it.
IV
Given how little warmth there is in my relationship with Zabrina (I think my last reported exchange with her was in the kitchen, while she juggled the devouring of pies) you can imagine how surprised I was when she appeared in my room yesterday evening. She had tears pouring down her face, and all the usual ruddiness had gone out of her skin.
“You have to come with me!” she said.
I asked her why, but she insisted that she had no time for explanations. I was simply to come; right now.
“At least tell me where we’re going,” I said.
“It’s Mama,” she said, her sobs coming on with new vigor.
“Something’s happened to Mama! I think maybe she’s dying.”
This was enough to make me getup out of my chair and follow Zabrina, though as we went I was quite certain she’d made a mistake. Nothing was ever going to happen to Cesaria: she was an eternal force. A creature born out of the primal fire of the world does not pass away quietly in her bed.
And yet the closer we got to Cesaria’s chambers the more I began to suspect there might be real reason for Zabrina’s panic. There had always been a subtle agitation in the passageways close to Cesaria’s rooms, as though her presence excited motion at a molecular level. To be there was to feel, in some unaccountable way, more alive. The light seemed clearer, the colors brighter, when you inhaled you seemed to feel the shape of your lungs as they expanded. But not today; today the passageways were like mausoleums. I began to feel a prickling dread creep over me. What if she was dead? Cesaria Yaos, the mother of mothers, dead? What would that mean for us who were left behind? The Gearys were about to mount an assault against us, I had no doubt of that. Holt’s journal, containing a detailed description of how to get to this very house, was in the hands of Garrison Geary himself And Ma
ma Cesaria was dead? Oh God.
Zabrina had halted a few yards from the door of Cesaria’s chambers.
“I can’t go in again . . .” she said, a new flood of tears coming.
“Where is she?”
“In her bedroom.”
“I’ve never been in her bedroom.”
“Just . . . go straight in, make the second right, and it’s at the end of the passageway.”
I was more than a little nervous now. “Come with me,” I said to Zabrina.
“I can’t,” she said. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so scared.
I left her to her trembling, and entered, my dread growing with every step I took. No doubt Cesaria had intended that anyone coming into these chambers should feel they were entering the temple of her body; certainly that was how I felt. The walls and ceiling were painted a purplish red, the bare boards underfoot were darkly stained. There was no furniture in the passageways; the rooms that lay to right and left were too gloomy for me to see into very clearly, but they also appeared to be bare.
I made the second right as Zabrina had instructed. For the first time since my healing at Cesaria’s hands I felt a stab of the old pain in my legs, and had a paranoid vision of my muscles atrophying in this dead air.
“Stop it,” I murmured to myself.
I might have uttered the words in a vacuum. Though I could feel my palate shape the syllables, and my breath expel them, the passageway refused to hear them uttered. They were snatched away and smothered.
I didn’t say anything more; I didn’t dare. I simply walked on to the door of Cesaria’s bedroom, and stepped inside.
It was as gloomy as all the other rooms, the heavy drapes closed against the sky, against the world. I waited for a few moments to let my eyes accommodate themselves to the murk, and by degrees they did just that.
There was a massive bed in the room. That was all, a massive bed, upon which my father’s wife lay like a body on a catafalque. None of her splendor was removed by her supine position. Even in death—if indeed she was dead—the physical fact of her demanded reverence. There was an uncanny precision about her; she seemed perfect, even in this state: like a great funereal work sculpted by her own genius.
I approached the bed, glad now that Zabrina hadn’t come with me. I didn’t want to share this moment with anybody. Though I was afraid, it was a glorious fear, a fear that surely you could only feel in the presence of a dead or dying goddess: a fear mingled with great swelling gratitude that I was allowed this sight.
Her face! Oh her face. The great black mane of her hair swept back from her wide brow, her dark skin gleaming, her mouth open, her lids open a little way too, but showing only the whites of her eyes.
Finally, I found the courage to speak. I said her name.
This time, the air consented to bear my word; it went from me lightly. But there was no response from Cesaria Yaos. Not that I expected there to be. I was increasingly certain that Zabrina was right. Mama was dead.
What now, I thought. Did I dare approach the bed and actually touch the body? Look for vital signs as if the woman before me were just a common cadaver? I couldn’t face that possibility. Better to go to the window, I thought, and open the drape a little way, so that I could see the body more clearly. That way I could make an assessment of her condition from a respectful distance.
Moving with due reverence I crossed the room to the window, thinking as I went what a life of sad confinement Cesaria had lived since my father’s passing. What had she done to fill the years, I wondered? Had the memories been enough to give her a taste of happiness? Or had she stewed in her sorrow up here, cursing her longevity, and the children who’d failed to give her joy?
I caught hold of one of the drapes, and started to pull it open. But as I did so, I felt something brush the back of my neck—just a feather touch, but it was enough to make me freeze. I glanced back over my shoulder, my hand still gripping the fabric. Had some subtle change come over Cesaria’ s face? Were her eyes open a fraction wider? Her head was turned a little in my direction? I stared at her for fully a minute, studying her face for some evidence of life. But I was imagining it: there was nothing.
Mastering my courage, I once again began to draw back the drape, and had opened it perhaps an inch when whatever had brushed my neck a little while before came against my face, not lightly this time, but like a blow. I heard a cracking sound in my head, and the next moment blood began to run from my nose. Needless to say, I let go of the drape instantly. If I hadn’t had to pass the bed to get to the door I might have run for it there and then, but I decided passivity was the wisest response. Whatever was here in the room with me, I didn’t doubt it could do me some serious damage if it set its mind to the task. I wanted to prove that I was no threat to it; or, perhaps more pertinently, to the sanctity of the body on the bed.
I didn’t even tend to my bleeding nose while I waited. I just let it run, and after a while the flow slowed and stopped. As for my attacker, wherever he was, he seemed satisfied of my innocence, because he made no further assault upon me.
And then, the strangest thing. Without moving her lips, Cesaria spoke.
Maddox, she said, what are you doing here?
The question wasn’t presented as a challenge. There was a gentle musicality in her voice. She almost sounded dreamy, in fact; as though she were speaking in her sleep.
“I thought—that is, Zabrina thought—something had happened to you,” I said.
It has, Cesaria replied.
“Are you sick? We thought perhaps you were dying?”
I’m not dying. I’m just traveling.
“Traveling? Where?”
There’s somebody I need to see, before he passes out of this life.
“Cadmus Geary,” I said.
She murmured her assent Of course you’ve been telling his story, she said.
“Some of it.”
He lived a troubled life, Cesaria said, and he’s going to die a troubled death. I’m going to make certain of that. She spoke without vehemence, but the observation made me glad I was nowhere near the dying man. If Cesaria wanted to give him grief, then grief she would give, and let anyone in his vicinity beware.
You’re hurt, she said.
“No, just—”
You’re bleeding. Was that Zelim’s doing?
“I don’t know who it was. I was trying to open the drape, to get a better look at you.”
—and you were struck.
“Yes.”
It was Zelim, Cesaria said. He knows I don’t like the light. But he was being overzealous. Zelim? Where are you?
There was a sound off in the far corner of the room like buzzing of bees, and it seemed to my somewhat befuddled eyes that the murky air knotted itself up, and something that resembled a human form appeared in front of me. It was only rudimentary; a slim, androgynous creature with large dark eyes.
Make your peace, Cesaria said. I assumed the instruction was for me, and I proceeded to apologize but she broke in: Not you Maddox. Zelim.
The servant bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “The error was mine. I should have spoken to you before I struck you.”
Now both of you can leave me, Cesaria said. Zelim, take Maddox into Mr. Jefferson’s study and make him a little more presentable. He looks like a schoolboy who’s just been in a brawl.
“Come with me,” said Zelim, who by now had reached such a level of corporeality that his nakedness was somewhat discomforting to me, despite the naïve form of his genitals.
I followed him to the door, and was just about to step out when I heard Cesaria call my name again. I looked back. Nothing had changed. She lay as she had, completely inert. But from the direction of her body there came—how can I describe this without stooping to sentimentality—there came a wave of love (there, I’ve stooped) which broke invisibly but touched me more profoundly than any visible force could have done. Tears of pleasure ran from my eyes.
“Thank you
, Mama,” I murmured.
You’re very welcome child, she said, now go and be tended to. Where’s Zabrina by the way?
“She’s outside.”
Tell her not to be a ninny. If I were truly dead I’d have every creature in the county weeping and wailing.
I smiled at this. “I think you would,” I said.
And tell her to be patient. I’ll be home soon.
V
Mr. Jefferson’s study, as Cesaria had referred to it, was one of the small rooms I had passed by on my way to the bedroom. I was ushered into it by Zelim, whose newfound politeness did nothing to sooth my unease at his presence. His voice, like his appearance, was wholly nondescript. It was as though he were holding on to the last vestiges of his humanity (I say holding on, but perhaps it was the other way about; perhaps I was simply witness to the final and happy sloughing off of the man he’d once been). Whichever it was, the sight of him, and the sound of a voice that barely sounded human, distressed me. I didn’t want to spend any time in his company. I told him there was nothing he need do for me; I’d quite happily mend myself once I got back downstairs. But he ignored my protestations. His mistress had told him to make good the damage he’d done, and he plainly intended to do so, whether I considered myself an injured party or not.
“Can I get you a glass of brandy?” he said. “I understand you’re not a great imbiber of brandy—”
“How do you know that?”
“I listen,” he said. So the rumors were true, I thought. The house was indeed a listening machine, delivering news from its various chambers up to Cesaria’s suite. “But this is a bottle we seldom touch. It’s potent. And it will take away the sting.”
“Then thank you,” I said. “I will have a little.”
He inclined his head to me, as though I’d done him great service by accepting the offer, and retired to the next room, allowing me the freedom to get up and wander around the study. There was plenty to see. Unlike the rest of the rooms, which were empty, it was filled with furniture. Two chairs and a small table, a writing desk set in front of the window, with its own comfortable leather chair tucked in beneath it, a bookcase, weighed down with sober tomes. On the walls were a variety of decorations. On one hung a crude map, painted on the dried pelt of some unlucky animal: the territory it charted unfamiliar to me. On another a modestly framed drawing, in a very academic style, of Cesaria reclining on a chaise longue. She was dressed prettily, in a high-waisted gown much decorated with small bows. An unfamiliar Cesaria; at least to me. Was this the way she’d looked when she’d been the glory of Paris society? I assumed so. The rest of the pictures were small, undistinguished landscapes, and I passed over them quickly, saving the chief focus of my attention for the strange object which sat on Jefferson’s desk It looked like a large, carpentered spider.
