by Toby Barlow
Vidot did not take his eyes off the man but nodded. “In a way, yes, he is a brother to me like no other could ever be, in that we have shared a unique and terrrible experience. But he is not a blood relative, no. He was once my colleague. His name is Bemm.”
“Bemm. I see. And what happened to Monsieur Bemm?”
“We were on a journey together, he and I. We were heading to the police station where we both work. Then we were attacked and separated. I thought he had died, but he hadn’t, he made it there to the station, and waited for me, I suppose, or for some kind of help, slowly going mad in his solitude. That is where they found him, transformed into … this.” Vidot leaned over and brushed the trembling patient’s hair away from his eyes. “He is healthy, physically, his body is fine. But his mind, well, it seems he encountered realities greater than he could bear. Many people need the certainty of solid walls and clear windows, but then they meet mysteries they cannot solve.”
The priest knew this all too well. “Yes, there are many.”
“And when they envelop and overwhelm you, well, if you are not prepared…” He gestured toward Bemm.
The priest looked down at the man. “What can I do for him?”
“Sit with him, talk to him, reassure him,” said the detective. “He needs a friend by his side, one who believes in him and, though I do not know you very well, I sense you are one of the few people alive who can help him.”
“I can try.”
“Good, good. I knew you would. Or at least I hoped so. I will come and visit as often as I can.” The detective leaned over and spoke gently to the patient. “Listen to me, Bemm, we are safe now. It is over. You can tell this man, this priest, the truth, he will understand. We are safe now, Bemm.” Again, he took the patient’s limp hand in his own. “We are safe.”
The detective rose and put on his hat. With a warm and grateful smile, he shook hands with Andrei and left the priest alone with Bemm, who had not changed his position or expression and still lay shivering on the cot.
Andrei sat down on the corner of the bed and stared into Bemm’s wild eyes. He stroked the man’s forehead. He thought about what Vidot had said about the mysteries. He realized that he himself had stopped trying to comprehend them many years ago, merely attempting instead to stay afloat as the spinning, swirling tempestuous world carried him along through the darkness on its grand elliptical journey.
He had been a victim of strange fortune, but not like this man, and not like his own brother. He imagined he was looking down at Max, who had suffered immeasurable horrors for years as a prisoner in another body, another life. He recalled what he had often imagined he would say to his brother if Max ever returned to him whole again, if they were ever fortunate enough to stand in a room, looking eye-to-eye. He remembered that these imaginary conversations always began the same way, with the same phrase, the words he believed lay at the core of what any human being ever wants to hear from another, what affection is in its primary essence, what the bonds of friendship and family mean above all else. So he placed his hand gently on Bemm’s shoulder and, softly, slowly, spoke the phrase, over and over again, as if it were a prayer, “I am so glad you are here.”
VII
Will lay in his apartment, listening as the front door creaked open. He was too exhausted to move from his bed. Fine, come in, monster, he thought, whoever you are, spy, soldier, policeman, priest, specter, come on in. He had a fairly good idea who it was.
He had arrived home late after wandering the streets, uncertain where he was supposed to be. He had called Oliver’s apartment from a pay phone and when there was no answer searched through the telephone booth’s beat-up directory until he found The Gargoyle Press’s number. No one picked up there, either. When he finally walked the long distance to his apartment, there was a note in his mailbox from his office asking him to call. It seemed they were worried, or perhaps they merely wanted to go through the final formality of firing him. But he didn’t want to call the agency now. He picked up the rest of the mail and newspapers and went inside, where he lit a cigarette, poured himself a whiskey, and collapsed on the couch.
The sun was setting and dusk washed the windowpanes with the pink hues of late autumn. In the last light of the day, he sipped his drink and glanced through the paper. There was no news of any gunfight at any barn. There was nothing that interested him. As the last of the sun slipped away, he kept the lights off and went to lie down. The darkness engulfed the room, drowning him in blackness as a deep sleep overwhelmed him.
He wasn’t sure what time it was when he heard the door latch turn, but it clicked his eyes wide open. A floorboard creaked, then stillness. Then he saw her shadowy figure slip into the room. She unzipped her skirt and pulled down her stockings. She crawled under the sheets and he took her warmly in his arms. She smelled like she had been sitting by a campfire.
He didn’t ask any questions. He kissed the nape of her neck, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, she shivered and grasped his head in her hands, her actions were fierce and hungry, kissing his neck and cheeks, until finally her lips fell on his lips. They kissed for a long time.
She never spoke. Eventually, they tumbled across the bed until she was lying beneath him. He pulled her close and took her breast in his mouth and she pressed her hips against him, opening her legs. He held her down on the bed and pushed himself inside her. As they moved together, he never stopped looking into her eyes; she tried to avoid his gaze but he held her steady and would not look away. Finally, her eyes spoke to him. Her eyes said, Words are too weak, too small, they are always too small, even the purest and most simple phrases fail. Her eyes said, Look at who you are, you were asleep when I met you, but now you’re awake, so stay awake. I did not need you and I did not want you and yet here you are, awake in my body and in my heart. Then her eyes said, This is the last time. Her eyes said, I am leaving you, don’t follow me. There is nothing but pain down my path. So kiss me goodbye. Kiss me. Please. Kiss me. And her eyes were crying.
He answered by turning her over so that he lay on top of her, pressing his lips hard on hers and then holding her face tight in his hands. Stay here, he said, without using words, stay with me, he said, pushing himself harder inside of her. Yes, I am awake now, he said. I am awake and I am yours. You have taken me on a journey I can never understand but now you own me, wholly. I was nothing, and now I am a man, and now I am yours.
She said nothing he could comprehend, she clung to his back and increased her passion, scraping him with her sharp nails until the blood seeped out from his flesh. She pulled him tighter still, so that the sweat of their chests smacked. She would not let him go, he would not release her, they thrashed and they thrust and they loudly strained the limits of the bed’s strength, until their bodies finally collapsed, intertwined, exhausted, breathing so hard it seemed their hearts might burst. He tried to look and see what her eyes said now, but they were closed.
He fell asleep again, he could not tell if he was dreaming or awake. He thought he heard the echo of women’s voices chattering in other rooms, but he could not tell if it was a dream or reality, maybe it was just the cooing of pigeons.
When he awoke, her pillow was empty and the room was dead quiet. He lay there thinking about all he had felt with her, how exposed and vulnerable, yet paradoxically also safe and assured. In the throes of their passion, he felt as though he had pulled back every layer and laid himself open to her, still wordless and yet revealing more than he had ever confessed, even to himself. He knew a threshold had been crossed, and that what he was feeling now was deeper than the various flirtations and romanticism and thoughtless screwing around that had come before. Because now she held some part of him, an indescribable, essential, and secret part, what he was at his best, a knowledge of his true potential, what he was made of, who he could be. He needed to be with her again, perhaps for as long as he remained in Paris, however long that would be, or perhaps for the length of his life, for if she did leave h
im she would be taking with her that essential part of him, and then he knew he would never feel whole again. The more he lay there thinking about it, the more certain he was. She had become an integral part of him, the person he would not be able to fully live without. He did not know if he lived within her in a similar way, but he suspected he might. It felt too strong not to be mutual. An exchange had occurred, of comfort, of knowledge, of intimacy.
He knew he was not being sentimental, it was more scientific than that, chemical to the point of being elemental, or maybe tribal, he could not say. All he knew was that they were one now. It was as simple as that. You didn’t need an advanced degree to figure it out, or a priest to tell you it was so. He rose from the bed and wound the sheet around himself.
Wandering through the dark apartment, he sought a sign of her presence, a note or a clue that she had actually been there and might be coming back. All he found was an irritation from the scratches on his back and the lingering scent of woodsmoke. Other than that, it was as if he had always been alone.
He lit a cigarette and sat on his couch, watching again as the sun came up over Paris. Looking back, he did not recognize the man he had been that morning when he had awoken hungover on the bench beneath the Pont Neuf. Since then, everything about him seemed to have changed. How was it possible for someone to travel such a great distance within himself in such a short period of time?
There was a ringing from the downstairs doorbell and Will rushed for the buzzer. It was her, he knew it, coming back, she could not have left him, it made no sense. He was surprised, moments later, when he opened the door to find Guizot standing there.
“Hello!” The little man burst past him into the apartment. “I went by your office yesterday, they say you are not there, they have no idea where you are. So I called here, I even came by yesterday afternoon. But today, aha, today I got you! I knew if I came early I would catch you, and I did. Where have you been hiding? It does not matter. But, my God, look at you, you look pathetic, we should get some caffeine into you.”
He went straight to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and began going through the cupboards, pulling out the coffee, the press pot, and the sugar. All the while he talked. “I met a girl, Will. A lovely girl! I know, I know, you say, ‘What of your wife, Guizot? Oh, you adored her so.’ Ah, well, my friend, you cannot waste your whole life worrying about one woman. So I am getting a divorce. It is not my style, no, I agree, and it will give my Catholic mother a heart attack—and it is going to be expensive—but we only each get one life, right? And this new girl, she is also going to be expensive too, ha ha, I could tell that right away. But worth it! So, I tell you what I am going to do. I am going to make my new girl a new perfume. I’ve already got a name for it: Eglantine. We are going to sell it by the truckload and make a mint. The best part? My wife’s lawyers won’t be able to touch the profits, right? Because I made this perfume after she left. My lawyers have it all figured out. Modern romance, Will, it’s crazy wonderful, is it not? Wait, what is the matter? You look like I just shot your dog.”
“I’m sorry, Guizot. I’m really not up for this right now.”
“Of course you are, you are my advertising genius! I need you. I know I fired you, forget it, don’t be mad. It’s over. We’re going to do this together, today, right now.”
“I don’t think so, Guizot.”
“Listen”—the little man shook his finger at Will—“I want to tell you this, whatever shit is going on in your life, it has no place in your work. That is the most important part of any man’s life. Work is the only thing that means anything. Ever. Whatever your problem is, you roll up your sleeves, you spit in your hands, you rub them together, and you work. Work can solve the biggest problems in the world. Money issues? Family? Constipation? I tell you, Will, work solves it.”
Will shook his head. “It’s none of those, Guizot. It’s a woman. A woman left me.”
For the first time since he entered the apartment, the little man paused. “A woman, eh?”
“Yes,” Will said. “A woman.”
“So, you like her? You miss her? That’s what this is all about?”
“Yes. I gave her my heart and she walked out.”
“Oh.” Guizot sat down on the kitchen stool and for a moment he was quiet. “What is her name?”
“Zoya.”
“Oh, that is a beautiful name.” It looked as though tears were welling up in Guizot’s eyes. Neither of them spoke; the soft electric buzz of the kitchen clock was the only sound in the room. Then Guizot smiled and snapped his fingers. “Okay, I have a brilliant idea. A spectacular idea. A big, colossal, amazing idea. You know where we can get a band?”
Will sighed. “Yes, I think I know where we can get a band.”
Guizot smiled. “Well then, let’s go.”
Three hours later, Guizot and Will were sitting behind the glass with the engineer at the Studio Pathé-Magellan watching as Kelly, Flats, and Red fleshed out the tune Guizot had written in the cab driving over. The engineer finessed the levels as the little man ran in and out of the booth, barking instructions at the players in between takes. The band took his comments in stride, seeming bemused by Guizot’s antics—probably because he was paying them such good money. (When Will had tracked the jazz boys down, the three had been wary of the offer. As Kelly put it, “Singing jingles ain’t gonna do much for our sterling reputations.” But Guizot had waved enough francs in their faces to convince them, even throwing in a case of perfumed bath soap for Flats to seal the deal.)
As the session slid into the afternoon, Will’s faith in their enterprise slowly faded. “This isn’t going to work,” he said.
“Ah, but of course it is. My guys are back in the warehouse right now scraping the old Parfait d’ Amour labels off and sticking on the new Eglantine labels. My trucks will distribute them before dawn all across the city. By the time we get this to the radio station tomorrow, Eglantine will already be on the shelves. I’ll have France covered by the end of the week, then Düsseldorf, Hamburg, Milan—boom, boom, boom.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Will. “The song won’t work.”
“Ah, of course it will, listen to that background. Nobody will hear it but her. “Zoya, Zoya, Zoya.” Ha ha, she’s going to love it.”
Will leaned back in the studio couch and listened as the little man sang and danced along with the recording, bouncing around like the ball in the sing-along films.
They kept working on the jingle, repeating it take after take; the music was better than a lot of the tunes Guizot had written. Still, Will realized, his funny little client had been right, days before, in his passionate diatribe against his industry. It wasn’t only the ads, it was the whole cultural mechanism of manufactured emotion: it had torn down, abused, and then reconstructed the way people lived. Before movie romances, he wondered, how did people kiss? How did they caress before they saw Bogart and Bergman embrace? Before pop songs told them to dance and twist and hold hands, how did they discover their passions, improvising and fumbling and finding their way blindly behind all those closed doors? But now, movies, television shows, radio programs, billboards, and advertisements all swamped, swarmed, and buzzed about them, blinding their eyes and drowning their ears, telling them what to feel and how to act.
The band took a break and came out of the booth. Red lit a cigarette. “Okay now, we can only do this for another hour or so, we’ve got a gig tonight.”
Will nodded.
“How do you fellows like the tune?” Guizot asked, beaming.
Kelly leaned back against the wall. “Well I don’t know now. Some music takes you to a nicer place, lifts your spirits up, or maybe only says good luck. Then there’s the music that just gets you paid.”
Guizot laughed and patted Kelly on the back. “That’s good. Now maybe try a little flamenco style?”
The jazz boys went back into the booth and the engineer started rolling the tape. As the rhythm picked back up and Red sang the tun
e, Guizot became blissfully engrossed in the band’s every gesture and beat. Will wasn’t listening anymore, he knew none of this mattered now. These canned tricks might work well for Guizot as he flew from one wife to the next, but it wouldn’t work on Zoya. She was a woman who knew the weight, measure, and meaning of things. Will could imagine exactly what she would look like when she heard the tune; it would be that same expression she had given him back in the bar when she had asked, “What happens after these victims of yours buy your product and the spell is broken? When they awaken to find their life is as empty and sad as it was before, only now a little poorer too?”
The band was still swinging, and Flats was blowing his horn, as Will quietly rose, put on his coat, picked up his hat, and slipped out of the room without saying goodbye. And that was the last day of Will Van Wyck’s once promising career in advertising.
VIII
When Adèle walked into her apartment, she screamed. Vidot sprang up from where he had been sitting on the couch. “Oh no! There is no need to be frightened, my dear. I am not a ghost, I am simply here, I am home.”
She looked thin and pale. He knew that no matter what emotions she held for him in her heart, his absence must have been a source of great stress. But though he wanted to, he did not reach out to embrace her. He simply stood smiling at her, a little awkward and formal, feeling stiff in his newly tailored light wool suit. The main room of their apartment felt very small and empty, he had never been more aware that they were the only two living things it contained. Seeming unsure of what to do, she merely stood there too. She straightened her skirt with her hands. “Where have you been? What happened to you?” she asked.
“I honestly do not know where to begin.” He shrugged. “I have been working, investigating, solving a crime, tying up loose ends. But I am home now, and I will not be going back in to work for a little while.” His smile felt awkward on his face, his stomach churned with worry. “Oh here, look, I brought home a present for you.” He pulled a large frame wrapped in butcher paper out from beside the table. He bent over and tore the paper away, trying not to shake from all the emotion he was working to contain. He stepped to the side so she could see the painting.
