Another Faust

by Daniel Nayeri

  “He made two, actually. And I’ve already seen him.”

  After the party, Madame Vileroy took the children to their new home in Manhattan for the first time. For a large, expensive apartment on the Upper East Side, the place was dark and dingy, probably the only apartment in the neighborhood with windows so small that it was impossible to see the street. As they stepped inside, the children could feel their breathing grow shorter, their skin grow paler, and their bodies grow fatigued, as if starving for fresh, unspoiled air. Even Belle, who was used to foul air, was uncomfortable in the house. The governess switched on a light, and the children looked at one another, confused. It was completely empty. There wasn’t a scrap of furniture in the entire house. There were two bedrooms off to one side and a large kitchen on the other. All these rooms too were empty — if you didn’t count the dust and the moths.

  “Where’s our stuff? Why is it empty?” Valentin asked, stepping into the bare room.

  “That’s the surprise,” said Madame Vileroy. “I’ve packed away our home so I could show you something new.”

  Bicé spotted three moths on the ceiling. She had a habit of looking for living things in every room. Moving things. Beings whose presence gave her a sense for the passage of time. Time — that was the gift Vileroy had given her. She watched the moths zigzag across the room and settle in a corner of the wall.

  “I told you that I would show you something tonight,” Madame Vileroy said with a mischievous tone as she snaked between Bicé and Christian and made her way to Valentin. She rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “Now that you’ve made some friends, you will need what I’m about to give you.”

  “Bicé didn’t make any friends,” said Victoria.

  “Only because of you,” said Belle, instinctively shielding Bicé from Victoria. “Don’t listen to her, Bicé.”

  “You should try to project a bit less jealousy, Belle,” said Victoria. “It’s not attractive.”

  Bicé snorted. “How do you know what’s attractive?” she said under her breath. “You’d probably tattoo your GPA on your forehead.”

  Valentin threw an arm around Bicé. “Good one, sis.” Bicé shrank a bit more. She gave Valentin a look that was alarmed, fatigued, and charmed all at once. She wondered why Valentin never called Victoria or Belle “sis.”

  Madame Vileroy reached into her pocket and took out two wooden boxes, small enough to fit in her hand. Valentin’s jaw dropped. She has two of them. He looked at Christian, who had the same look. One box was a deep crimson, and the other was a bright baby blue. “This, my dears, is where you’ll entertain all your new friends,” said Madame Vileroy as she lifted the blue one and tossed it in the middle of the empty apartment. It hit the floor with a faint echo. As soon as it hit the ground, the box began to glow. It was an eerie glow, not beautiful, but mesmerizing, and painful to the eyes. At first, it was just a faint light circling the box, as if there were a candle inside. But then, the circle of light grew bigger; it became more pronounced, slowly filling the room to the point that nothing else was visible. Still, the children could not stop staring. Within seconds, the entire apartment was gone from view. They could see only the light, even when they closed their eyes or looked away. It was as if they had stared at the bright sun for hours and suddenly tried to look away. The light had gone deeper into them than their eyes.

  And then, in an instant, it was gone. The painful light, the empty apartment, the stale air — all gone. Valentin rubbed his eyes. Bicé’s were still closed. When their eyes adjusted, they saw that they were standing in an entirely new apartment — a beautifully decorated home that looked like it should be on the cover of a magazine.

  “Wow,” said Belle. “It’s so much nicer than —”

  “That’s what they respect here. Affluence. Pretty things,” said Vileroy in a silky tone.

  “Then why don’t we live here all the time?” asked Belle eagerly.

  “Money is easy.” The governess shrugged. “What you have in the crimson house is rare, and more precious.”

  The living room of the blue-box apartment was decorated almost entirely in shades of white and cream, with just a hint of blue in the walls. In the corner stood a small table with a reading lamp and bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. Three lush white couches surrounded a large glass coffee table, and the walls were covered with French impressionist paintings. Valentin felt a painful pang when he looked at them. He hated landscapes. Belle began to walk around, feeling the soft fabric of the couch, running her fingers down the spines of the books, turning the lamp off and on.

  The children scattered, exploring every inch of the living room and dining room. The floor plan didn’t fit the original apartment, with its prisonlike windows and lack of light. This apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows leading to a balcony.

  “Is it real?” Victoria asked Madame Vileroy when the others were off exploring. “Or is it just my eyes?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you want to believe. Do you believe that I’m real? Is everything you’ve done real?”

  “I think that stuff is real,” Victoria said.

  “Well, this is as real as the other house,” Madame Vileroy answered.

  “It feels like it could just be a mirage or something. But I can feel it,” Victoria tapped a bookcase with her knuckle.

  “If it looks real and feels real, do you think it matters if it’s real?”

  “Well . . .” Victoria thought that it did matter.

  “Of course it doesn’t, because the appearance of greatness is enough for you.”

  “It is not!”

  “Sure it is. Accolades rather than accomplishments. That’s what you asked for.”

  It was true.

  One by one, Madame Vileroy showed the children their rooms. Great pains had obviously been taken to make the rooms seem typical, but they seemed like caricatures instead. There was the room Belle and Bicé would pretend to share when visitors arrived. It was pink and far too girly. Inside were pictures of Belle winning various beauty pageants and Bicé standing in front of famous monuments all over the world. The shelves were covered with books in every language imaginable, and next to the door was an antique vanity table and mirror.

  “Wow, it’s like travel-guide Barbie in here,” said Bicé. “Do we really expect people to buy this?”

  Victoria’s room too was a tribute to her talents. Latin trophies, academic team medals, and debate certificates adorned every surface and shelf. Though they were all fake, Victoria seemed happy enough, leafing through her supposed triumphs. Next, they visited Valentin and Christian’s room. Sports equipment spilled out of every nook and cranny. Valentin’s desk was off to the side and contained several volumes of poetry and prose. There was an ergonomic keyboard and a stack of ancient first-person shooters like Doom and Wolfenstein 3D next to his computer. Valentin shook his head and moved on.

  Christian wondered why the hockey sticks in his closet didn’t have tape wrapped around the handles. He would have done that first thing. And there were no dog-eared pages in Valentin’s books. It was as if real kids didn’t live in the house, only kids from a television show. Every prop was in place, but nothing was lived in.

  “It’s fitting that you should live here,” said Madame Vileroy to Victoria, who was still unsure. “These houses are just like the five of you. They may be genuine. They may be a trick. But they are impressive. They give the illusion of grandeur, and that’s all that matters. Were they built out of nothing through hard work and sacrifice? Or are they just surface coating to cover up something ordinary? That doesn’t matter at all, Victoria.”

  After a bit of exploring, Madame Vileroy gathered the children back in the living room. “Remember, you will have to quickly revert to this house if there are any visitors. It’s important that you know your way around.”

  They all nodded.

  “All right, let’s go home.”

&n
bsp; Bicé began to mumble nervously. She always mumbled when she was anxious, each time in a different language. This time, though, Belle could understand her native Italian.

  With another quick flick of her wrist, Madame Vileroy threw the crimson box onto the floor. As the light grew larger and brighter, the entire apartment changed to a bloodlike hue. The light grew painful again, boring deep past the eyes. It was like an eclipse. Belle turned her head. Christian looked down. Nothing worked. In a few moments the entire space was nothing more than an intense, probing light. Then the light disappeared. But everyone’s eyes were still filled with red until they were able to open them again.

  Inside this house was a scene far different than the peaceful family home of a few minutes ago. At the center was a large round room that took up most of the space. Attached to this room were almost a dozen tiny hallways, like arms extending out to the corners of the apartment. At the end of each hallway were tiny rooms, deliberately separated from the others. A much narrower hallway led from the living room to the east wing, which contained Madame Vileroy’s private quarters.

  The deep color of the walls, combined with the unsettling light of candles, painted the apartment in hellish hues and patches of shadow. Clusters of candles were jutting from the walls at every height, in every direction, as though they had been stabbed into the sides of the room. And pouring from the hilt of each weapon was wax and fire, like the Water and the Blood. Extending throughout the main room and into each of the hallways, they were like fiery thorns, keeping the children alert and away from the narrowest halls leading to Madame Vileroy’s rooms. At the center of the circular living room were six chairs surrounding a big round wooden table. Around the room, openings to each of the hallways were visible every few feet. Between them, ancient bookshelves and mirrors decorated the living-room walls.

  Despite all this, the most palpable difference in the room was the air. The stale, rotten air of the empty apartment was back, but stronger. It was as if this house were the very source of the stifling atmosphere they had walked into earlier in the evening, as if the empty apartment still carried the dregs of the poison emanating from that little crimson box.

  Bicé mumbled, “Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’entrate.”

  Belle shuddered. “Bicé, stop that.”

  They had lived in this house for years, long before New York, since the day they had first arrived at the cottage in the country; yet each time they entered it, it was as uncomfortable as the first time.

  Madame Vileroy looked around with satisfaction. “It’s nice to be home, isn’t it, children?” she said. “I have a few more surprises. If you behave, I’ll show them to you tomorrow.”

  “For Christmas . . .” said Bicé.

  “Let’s not make a spectacle of Christmas,” said the governess. Madame Vileroy hated that day. Without saying good night, she swept out of the room through the narrow corridor leading to the east wing, her luxurious black coat floating behind her.

  Victoria looked around, still unnerved by what Madame Vileroy had said. The results will be real enough, Victoria assured herself. And if the rest of it isn’t, no one can find out. She looked up at the ceiling. The room was hot and dark. The air was so thick, it almost moved. Victoria was getting a headache, but something kept her gaze fixed on the chandelier overhead. It was made of glass and filled with little dim candles. She’d seen it a thousand times, but this time it looked as if it saw her back. Victoria was getting dizzy, and the air around her was becoming thicker, harder to breathe. It rolled and undulated all around her. Is it real? For a moment, Victoria thought that she could no longer see the chandelier, only the little lights. They were still there — vaguely — hanging in midair above her. Now, as Victoria stared at it, all she could see were tongues of flame, floating alone. They hovered overhead, ready to baptize her with a torrent of fire. Victoria rubbed her eyes. “Vic,” called Valentin. Victoria whipped around.

  “What?” she snapped. “You scared me.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” she said. She looked back up. The chandelier was there now, glass, candles, and all — as real as anything else in the room.

  At midnight, Valentin, Victoria, and Belle were sitting around the center table. Valentin leaned back in a chair, his feet up on the table, practicing sleight of hand with a coin. Belle filed away at her nails, while Victoria checked and rechecked and rechecked a stack of lists.

  “What a bunch of poseurs,” mused Valentin.

  “Some of them seemed nice,” said Belle, thinking of Thomas and not looking up from her nails.

  “You’re just thinking of Thomas,” said Valentin.

  “No, I’m not!” said Belle.

  “Yes, you are,” said Victoria as she crossed three things off her list.

  “Stop cheating,” said Belle.

  “Ugh, gross!” said Victoria. “You have a dirty little mind, Belle.”

  Belle turned red and lunged at Victoria. “Stop!”

  “OK! OK! Speaking of cheating,” said Victoria, “I heard an interesting conversation at the party.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Vic, but mind reading some girl’s SAT score isn’t so riveting for the rest of us,” said Valentin. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing what filthy secrets our little Belle is hiding. . . .” Belle rolled her eyes.

  “Actually,” said Victoria, “I overheard Bicé and Christian talking about how we all got here. About being adopted as babies, and when you started to change, Belle . . .”

  Belle put down her nail file and perked up. “What did they say?”

  “Bicé was upset about what you’ve done to her,” Victoria said to Belle.

  “What? She doesn’t know anything. . . . I didn’t do anything!”

  “She doesn’t know everything, but she knows that you think she’s ugly.”

  “I never said that. I don’t think that at all!” said Belle.

  “You sold your soul to the devil for a different face,” said Valentin. “That might tip her off,” he mused out loud while staring at the coin in his hand. “Sold your soul . . . sounds so Middle-earth.”

  “She doesn’t know, Valentin. Neither one of them knows what we did. And I know it’s hard, but we have to keep our mouths shut.”

  “It’s not hard,” said Valentin casually.

  “Well, I’ve never kept anything other than this from Bicé. It wouldn’t do any of us any good if they knew. Remember what Vileroy said — those two are not in on this!”

  Victoria sneered at Belle. “Don’t you feel like total scum for treating your own twin like this?”

  “I love Bicé!” Belle shot back. “I’m just trying to protect her. You know how she is. This would kill her.”

  “Oh, right. You’re doing it for her sake.”

  “Vic, please! As if you know what it’s like to love anyone other than yourself!”

  “Whatever, but they’ll find out what we did sooner or later,” said Victoria. “Christian is starting to feel guilty about stealing.”

  “I know. And those false memories of ‘abandoned children’ and childhood traveling are so full of holes,” said Belle. “But we have to stay quiet. If Bicé found out, it would break her heart, and she would hate me forever.”

  “I don’t know why Vileroy keeps those two around, anyway,” said Victoria. “I mean, I get why we don’t tell them. They’d probably screw things up. But why keep them here? Why give them gifts?”

  “She probably likes the challenge. Trying to get them to make the deal,” said Valentin.

  “Christian already has,” Victoria said confidently.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Valentin, leaning back a little.

  “He did, and then he changed his mind, remember?” said Victoria, remembering that day in the cottage five years ago.

  “Then why keep him around?”

  “Because there’s so much more she wants. I don’t think it’s just about that one deal,” said Belle. “She wants more fro
m us.”

  Belle bowed her head sadly, and Valentin changed the subject, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll tell you one thing: Christian and Bicé have some crazy ideas about where we got our gifts,” he said, laughing. “They think Vileroy’s some sort of magic godmother, or a witch or something.” He stared at his hand again. “Yeah . . . a really hot witch.”

  “Gross, Valentin,” said Victoria, reading his thoughts.

  On Christmas morning, Victoria and Madame Vileroy went out to have a look around their new city. Most of the streets were freshly plowed, and the sidewalks were covered with a yellow layer of snow. Despite the holiday, there were plenty of people on the street, chatting, walking their dogs, and shopping at the handful of stores that were open. Madame Vileroy loved to people-watch. She did it constantly — always peering and commenting on people’s behavior. If she spotted an argument, she would stop and listen.

  Madame Vileroy was wearing her long black flowing coat and a stylish black hat. She was always elegantly dressed, always impressive. Victoria wondered to herself if her clothes were like the blue house, an illusion. In the end, she just didn’t care.

  “We’ll go by subway,” Madame Vileroy said as she headed toward Lexington Avenue. The subway never failed to satisfy her desire to eavesdrop.

  Victoria, on the other hand, despised traveling by subway. She hated everything that made her seem ordinary. She bought a single-ride pass and walked to the turnstiles. But instead of inserting her ticket and going through, Victoria went to the handicap entrance and pulled it open. The security guard shot her a look.

  “I put my ticket there,” she pointed to the turnstile, “and it didn’t read it.” Then she smiled sweetly. The guard smiled back at the sprightly little girl and nodded. Madame Vileroy was already waiting on the platform.