The Taker-Taker 1

by Alma Katsu

  As the tailor packed his things, a stranger arrived for Adair. A somber gentleman with two ledgers and a portable writing kit—ink-well, quills—tucked under his arm. The two went immediately to the study without a word to anyone else.

  “Do you know who that man is?” I asked Alejandro as I watched the study door close.

  “Adair’s taken a solicitor while you were gone. It is understandable: now that he is in this country, he has legal matters to attend to regarding his property overseas. These things come up from time to time. It is of no consequence,” he answered, as though it was the most boring thing imaginable. And so I paid no more mind to it—at the time.

  “It is nonsense,” Jonathan said when Adair told him an artist was coming to the house that day to make sketches of him for an oil painting.

  “It would be criminal not to have your likeness captured,” Adair argued back. “There are far homelier men who have immortalized themselves for posterity, lined the walls of their familial mansions with their sorry likenesses. This very house is a case in point,” Adair said, gesturing to the walls of portraits that had been rented with the house to provide a ready-made pedigree. “Besides, Mrs. Warner told me about the artist, quite gifted, and I want to see if he is worth the accolades that are being heaped upon him. He should thank God to get such a subject, I tell you. Your face may well establish this man’s career.”

  “I don’t care to make anyone’s career,” Jonathan retorted, but he knew the battle was lost. He sat for the artist but was not exactly cooperative; he slumped in the chair, leaning with his cheek against his hand, face sullen, like a schoolboy being kept after class. I perched on the window seat for the entire session, seeing his beauty anew through the artist’s quick charcoal sketches. The artist clucked to himself throughout, undoubtedly pleased at his good fortune to be working on such a striking figure and getting paid for the privilege.

  Dona, once an artist’s model, sat with me for an afternoon, ostensibly to study the artist’s technique. I noticed that he seemed to observe Jonathan more than he bothered with the artist.

  “He’s going to become quite the pet, isn’t he,” Dona said at one point. “You can tell by the portrait—Adair only has likenesses done of his favorite. The odalisque, for instance.”

  “And what does that mean, to be his favorite?”

  He gave me a sly look. “Oh, don’t pretend. You have been Adair’s favorite for a short while. In some ways, you still are. And so you know, it’s onerous. He expects your attention all the time. He’s very demanding and easily bored, especially when it comes to sex games,” Dona said, lifting a shoulder archly, as though to say he was happy he was no longer pressured to come up with new ways to bring Adair to climax. I looked closely at Dona, studying his features as he spoke: he was a handsome man, too, though his beauty had been forever ruined by some unhappiness he carried inside. A secret malice clouded his eyes and twisted his mouth into a sneer.

  “And he’s only had portraits done of these two?” I asked, taking up the conversation again. “Only Uzra and Jonathan?”

  “Oh, there have been a few others. Only the stunningly beautiful. He’s left their paintings in storage in the old country, like the faces of angels locked away in a vault. They’ve fallen out of favor. Perhaps you’ll see them one day.” He tilted his head, studying Jonathan with a critical eye. “The paintings, I mean.”

  “The paintings …,” I repeated. “But the fallen ones—what has become of them?”

  “Oh, some have left. With Adair’s blessing, of course. No one leaves without it. But they’re scattered like leaves in the wind … We rarely see them again.” He paused for a minute. “Though you have met Jude, now that I think of it. No loss, his departure. What a diabolical man, to pass himself off as a preacher. A sinner in saint’s clothing.” Dona laughed, as though it was the funniest thing he could conceive of, one of the damned masquerading as a preacher.

  “You said only some have left. What of the others? Has anyone left without Adair’s permission?”

  Dona gave me a thinly malevolent smile. “Don’t pretend to be stupid. If it were possible to leave Adair, would Uzra still be here? You have been around Adair long enough to know that he’s neither careless nor sentimental. You either leave in his good graces or, well … he’s not about to leave someone behind to take revenge on him and reveal him to the wrong people, is he?” But this was the last Dona would say about our mysterious overlord. He glanced down at me and, seeming to think better of divulging anything more, swept out of the room, and left me to ponder all that he’d told me.

  About this time, there was a commotion across the room, Jonathan rising abruptly from his chair. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I can bear it no longer,” he said, following Dona and leaving the disappointed artist to watch his good fortune walk out of the room. In the end, there never was a painting done of Jonathan, and Adair was forced to settle for a charcoal drawing that was subsequently framed under glass and kept in the study. What Adair didn’t know was that Jonathan was to be the last of his favorites to be immortalized in a portrait, that all of Adair’s peculiarities and schemes were about to be upended completely.

  FORTY-ONE

  After the success of the first night, Adair took Jonathan with him everywhere. Besides the usual evening diversions, he began finding things for the two of them to do together, leaving the rest of us on our own. Adair and Jonathan went to horse-racing meets in the country, dinners and debates at a gentlemen’s club, and attended lectures at Harvard College. I heard Adair took Jonathan to the most exclusive brothel in the city, where they picked a half dozen girls to attend to them both. The orgy seemed a sort of ritual meant to bind the two together, like a blood oath. Adair impatiently introduced Jonathan to all his favorite things: he piled novels on the nightstand beside Jonathan’s bed (the same ones he’d had me read when he’d taken me under his wing), had special meals prepared for him. There was even talk of going back to the old country so Jonathan could experience the great cities. It was as though Adair was determined to create a history for the two of them to share. He would make his life Jonathan’s. It was frightening to watch, but it did distract Jonathan. He hadn’t spoken of his fears for his family and the town since we left, though it had to be on his mind. Perhaps he was doing me a kindness by not speaking of it, since there was nothing we could do to change our situation.

  It was after a little time had passed in this way, the two men spending much of their time in each other’s company, when Adair pulled me aside. The household was lounging in the sunroom, the three others teaching Jonathan the intricacies of betting in faro, Adair and I sitting on a divan watching like a contented father and mother admiring their brood at harmonious play.

  “Now that I’ve been in the company of your Jonathan, I’ve come to form an opinion of him … Would you care to know what that is?” Adair said to me in a low voice so he wouldn’t be overheard. His gaze did not leave Jonathan as he spoke. “He’s not the man you think he is.”

  “How do you know what I think of him?” I tried to sound confident but could not keep the quaver out of my voice.

  “I know you think someday he will come to his senses and devote himself entirely to you,” he said sarcastically, indicating how little he cared for the idea.

  Forsaking all others … Hadn’t Jonathan already vowed as much to one woman, for all the good it did? He probably hadn’t remained faithful to Evangeline for a month after they were wed. I settled a curdled smile on my lips; I wouldn’t give Adair the satisfaction of knowing he’d wounded me.

  Adair shifted his weight on the divan, insouciantly crossing one leg over the other. “You shouldn’t take his inconstancy to heart. He’s not capable of such love, not for any woman. He’s not capable of putting anyone else’s needs before his own wants and desires. For instance, he told me it troubles him that he makes you so unhappy—”

  I dug my fingernails hard into the back of one hand, but there was no pain to
divert me.

  “—but he is at a loss as to what to do about it. Whereas, to most men, the remedy would be obvious: either give the woman what she desires or break off with her entirely. But he still craves your company and so he cannot be done with you.” He sighed, a bit theatrically. “Do not despair. All hope is not lost. The day may come when he will be capable of loving one person, and there is a chance, however slight, that that person may be you.” And then he laughed.

  I longed to slap him. To throw myself on top of Adair, circle his neck with my two hands, and throttle the life out of him.

  “You are angry with me, I can feel it.” My impotent anger seemed to amuse him, too. “Angry with me for telling you the truth.”

  “I’m angry with you,” I replied, “but it’s because you’re lying to me. You’re trying to crush my feelings for Jonathan.”

  “I’ve managed to make you quite upset, haven’t I? Granted, I’ll allow that you can usually tell when I’m lying—and you’re the only one who seems to have that skill, my dear—but I’m not lying to you this time. I almost wish I was lying. Then you would not be so hurt, would you?”

  It was too much to bear, being pitied by Adair at the same moment he was trying to turn me against Jonathan. I looked over at Jonathan as he peered over his cards to the pot in the middle of the table, absorbed in the faro game. I’d begun to find Jonathan’s presence a great comfort, like a resonant hum within me. Of late, though, I’d noticed a melancholy undercurrent from Jonathan, which I’d assumed was sadness for having left Evangeline and his daughter. If what Adair said was indeed true, might he not be melancholy for the unhappiness he caused me? It made me wonder for the first time if the obstacle to our love—the defect, as it were—lay with Jonathan and not me. For it seemed almost inhuman to be unable to give yourself over wholly to one person.

  A trill of feminine laughter interrupted my thoughts, as Tilde threw down her cards in victory. Jonathan flashed a look back at her, and in that look, I knew that he had slept with her already. Slept with Tilde though he didn’t find her particularly alluring, though he knew to be wary of her, though he knew if I found out, I would be devastated. Despair lit up in me like flash paper, despair for what I was helpless to change.

  “Such a waste.” Adair was at my ear instantaneously, like the serpent in the Garden. “You, Lanore, are capable of such a perfect love, a love like nothing I have ever seen. And why you choose to waste it on someone as unworthy as Jonathan …”

  His whisper was like perfume on the night air. “What are you saying? Are you offering yourself up as a more worthy object of my love?” I asked, searching for the answer in his wolfish eyes.

  “Would that you could love me, Lanore. If you really knew me, you would see I am unworthy of your love. But one day, perhaps you will look on me as you look on Jonathan, with the same favor? Impossible, it would seem, given your devotion to him, but who knows? I’ve seen the impossible happen, every once in a great long while,” he said slyly, but when I tried to ask him to explain himself, he merely wrinkled his nose and laughed. Then he rose from the divan and called to be dealt in on the next round of faro.

  Ignored, I went into the study to find a book with which to divert myself. As I passed Adair’s desk, the light from my candle fell across a sheaf of papers left on the blotter and my eye went as though by magic to Jonathan’s name, written in Adair’s hand.

  Why in the world would Adair be writing about Jonathan? A letter to a friend? I doubted he had a friend in the world. I held the pages closer to the candle.

  Instructions for Pinnerly (the solicitor’s name, I’d learned).

  Account to be established for Jacob Moore (Jonathan’s false name) with the Bank of England in the sum of eight thousand pounds (a fortune) transferred from the account of … (a name I did not recognize).

  The instructions called for several other accounts to be set up in Jonathan’s false name, drawn from the accounts of other strangers in Amsterdam, Paris, and St. Petersburg. I read it over twice more but could make no sense of it, and left the page as I’d found it on the table.

  It appeared Adair was so smitten with Jonathan that he was taking steps to provide for him, as though adopting him. I admit I was slightly jealous and wondered if a fund had been set up for me somewhere. What would be the point, if Adair had never told me as much? I had to wheedle and beg him for spending money, as did the others. It seemed only another sign that Adair had taken a special interest in Jonathan.

  Jonathan seemed to accept his new life. At least, he didn’t object to being made to share Adair’s indulgences and vices, and he didn’t bring up St. Andrew. There was only one vice Adair hadn’t shared with his new favorite yet, one that Jonathan would not decline if it were offered. That vice was Uzra.

  Jonathan had been living with us for three weeks when he was introduced to her. Adair asked Jonathan to wait in the drawing room, as I clung jealously to his side, and then Adair brought Uzra in with a flourish, the odalisque dressed in her usual swath of winding cloth. When he released her hand, the fabric dropped to the floor to reveal Uzra in her glory. Adair even had her dance for Jonathan, swaying her hips and twisting her arms as Adair sang an improvised tune. Afterward, he had the hookah brought down and we reclined on cushions thrown on the floor, taking turns sucking on the carved ivory mouthpiece.

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she? So lovely that I haven’t been able to part with her. Not that she hasn’t been trouble: she’s a devil. Thrown herself out windows and off rooftops. Thinks nothing of giving me fits. Still burns with hatred for me.” He traced a finger down her nose, despite the fact that she looked as though she’d bite that finger off if given the chance. “I suppose that’s what’s kept her interesting to me over the years. Let me tell you how Uzra came to be with me.” At the mention of her name, Uzra tensed visibly.

  “I met Uzra on a trip to the Moorish states,” Adair started, unaffected by Uzra’s distress. “I was in the company of a noble who was negotiating for the freedom of his brother, who had foolishly tried to steal some treasure from one of their leaders. I had by that time a fair reputation as a warrior. I had fifty years’ experience with the sword, more than most men. I had been bought, as it were, to help this nobleman, my loyalty paid for in coin. That was how I came to be in the East and stumble upon Uzra.

  “It was in a large city, in the marketplace; she was following behind her father, and draped as custom demanded. All I could see of her were her eyes, but that was enough: I knew I had to see more. So I followed them to their encampment on the outskirts of the city. Speaking to some of the men tending the camels, I learned that the father was the leader of a nomadic tribe and that the family was in the city so that she could be given to some sultan, some indolent prince, in exchange for her father’s life.”

  Poor Uzra was completely still now. She had even stopped drawing on the hookah. Adair wrapped a tendril of her fiery hair around a finger, gave it a tug as though reprimanding her for her aloofness, then let it fall.

  “I found her tent, where she was attended by a dozen women servants. They formed a circle around her, and thinking she was hidden from view, helped her out of her robes, slipped the fabric from her cinnamon skin and unfurled her hair, their hands fluttering all over her body … Chaos broke out when I burst into the tent,” Adair said with a throaty laugh. “The women screamed, ran, fell over each other trying to protect themselves from me. How could they think I would settle for one of them when this mesmerizing jinn stood naked before me? And Uzra knew I’d come for her, from the look in her eye. She barely had time to cover herself with a robe before I swooped down on her and carried her away.

  “I took her to a place in the desert where I knew no one would find us. I took her over and over that night, heedless of her crying,” he said, as though he had nothing to be ashamed of, as though he had as much right to her as he had to water to slake his thirst. “The sun came up the next morning before my delirium started to subside and I was sated
with her beauty. In between our pleasures, I asked her why she was being given to the sultan. It was because her tribe held a superstition about a jinn with green eyes who would bring pestilence and suffering. They were fearful, the idiots, and they petitioned the sultan. The father was ordered to hand her over or be killed himself. You see, to break the curse she had to die.

  “I knew that I was not the first man she had been with, so I asked who had taken her virginity. A brother? A male relative, no doubt—who else would be able to get close to her? It turned out to have been her father. Can you believe that?” he asked, incredulous, snorting as though it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “He was the chief, a patriarch used to having his way. But by Uzra’s fifth birthday, he could tell by the girl’s coloring that he was not her father. The mother had been unfaithful and, by the green of the child’s eyes, had consorted with a foreigner. He said nothing, merely took the mother out into the desert one day and returned without her. By Uzra’s twelfth birthday, she had taken her mother’s place in his bed; he told her that she was the daughter of a whore and no blood relation to him, so it was not forbidden. She was to tell no one. The servants thought it charming that the girl was so affectionately disposed toward her father that she could not bear to be apart from him.

  “I told her none of it mattered. I was not going to give her to that superstitious sultan. Nor would I send her back to her father so he could force himself on her one last time before handing her over, like a coward.” Over the course of Adair’s story, I had managed to take Uzra’s hand and squeezed it, from time to time, to let her know I commiserated with her, but I saw in her dead green eyes that she had taken herself to another place, away from his cruelty. Jonathan, too, was quietly embarrassed for her. Adair continued, heedless of the fact that he was the only one enjoying his tale. “I decided to save her life. Just like the others. I told her that her long ordeal was over. She was to start a new life with me and she would stay with me forever.”