Another Faust

by Daniel Nayeri

  And this time, in the pause right after, Valentin leaned back and said, “Who else thinks that Vileroy’s kinda hot?”

  “Shut up,” said the other three, almost in unison.

  Christian went to his room. On the way, he walked past Madame Vileroy, leaning against the wall. He didn’t stop. “You are a good boy, Christian,” she said as he passed.

  But Christian didn’t want anything to do with her right now. He ran to his room. When he opened the door, he saw that she’d changed things. “I have a present for you. You deserve a present.” He couldn’t feel her breath on his neck, but she was close enough that he should have. At the center of the room was an isolation tank. He had been lying down in that coffin for years now, staring up as the lid closed over him, letting the blood-thick water lap around his sides. The darkness would pour into every inch of space. The glittering liquid, teeming with tiny crystals, would press itself into the pores of his skin, knifing through the holes and into his bloodstream — little stones squeezing through every vein and capillary. His breath would quicken, every muscle contract, relax, and contract again. But then he would come out rejuvenated, stronger than an ox, supercharged like a dynamo. If he stayed in there long enough, Christian might have been able to leap tall buildings or stop a train.

  And someday he would. That was the governess’s plan all along. He would become a hero. The next big thing. Olympic medals, World Cup trophies, Super Bowl rings, and all the worship of fans, all the money from endorsements. What loving mother wouldn’t want that? He would turn the world’s attention to what he could do athletically — famous forever, rich, and not hungry. Not hungry or poor. That was the ambition Vileroy had preyed upon. Though it wasn’t so much an ambition as a fear. And she would use it to make him a hero. Or maybe he’d be strong enough to crush a tall building or crash a train. He’d be powerful, able to shape public opinion with an iron fist — tyrannical, infamous, and starving for more.

  In the corner of the room stood a young man, or that’s what Christian thought, because it was impossible to tell. His face was ageless, with no lines or expressions, no sign of having laughed or cried or lived beyond today. He was very strongly built and was wearing a pair of white pants, like Christian’s martial arts pants, and no shirt. He had a blank expression on his face and stood without moving, like a dummy or a toy soldier ready for his orders. That was what had caught Christian’s attention, because he’d never seen this stranger before.

  “Who’s this?” Christian asked Madame Vileroy.

  “Don’t you want more practice?” The look of alarm on Christian’s face seemed to amuse Madame Vileroy. “Even Valentin is improving. Your sisters are naturals at it. But you, you’ve been queasy.”

  “The others don’t have to hurt people.”

  “You don’t want to be weak, do you, Christian? Victoria cheats, because she has to. Bicé hides. Valentin lies. Belle tricks. They do what they do because that’s what’s best for them. Stealing is no different.”

  She said everything in a dead tone, a plain, assured, terrifying tone. Christian looked like he was about to cry. He couldn’t ever seem to figure out what it would take to get him what he wanted. Quite frankly, Christian was starting to get distracted. His ravenous desire to be free from ever worrying about money was still there. But Vileroy knew he was spending more and more time writing instead of practicing. Now she’d make sure he got plenty of practice, in sports, in stealing, and most of all, in cruelty.

  Suddenly, the dummy in the corner began to move. First its shoulder shrugged a bit. Then it looked up at Christian. It went into a fighting stance.

  “He’s not real,” said Vileroy. “Trust me.”

  The dummy hopped from one stance to another, closing the distance between it and Christian. Christian knew it was simulating a Thai kick boxer. It would attack soon.

  “I’d rather spend a whole day in the chamber,” said Christian.

  “It doesn’t take nearly as long as you’d think to recover. He’s very resilient.”

  The dummy lunged at Christian with a rising knee. Christian evaded, but just barely. It turned and struck Christian with an elbow. It seemed like it was made of something hard that gave a little but hurt a lot. Still, somehow, it felt like human flesh.

  “Go away. I’m not doing this.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Vileroy. “It’s what you want.”

  It grabbed Christian behind the head. Christian knew the match would be over soon if he didn’t do something.

  “This is not what I want,” said Christian.

  He tried to look at Vileroy as he said it, but before he could even finish his sentence, the dummy wrenched his head down and thrust its knee into Christian’s stomach. All the air left his body at once. The dummy had to hold him up. Christian tried to regain his breath to say something, but his chest and neck were getting battered by the dummy’s knees. Finally, it took one step back, pulled Christian’s head down farther, and rammed its knee into Christian’s nose. Christian felt a warm liquid beginning to pool behind his eyes. Another smash was coming. Then he heard, “I couldn’t do this if you didn’t want it, Christian.”

  Christian reached out his hand and touched the dummy. A second later, it collapsed to the ground, and Christian stood up with a surge of energy running through his own body. Nothing felt worse than the guilt of how good it felt. He was perfectly fine now. His bloody nose was gone, his entire body recharged. Madame Vileroy didn’t bother to congratulate him.

  “You should name him. How about Connor? Like your new friend.”

  “No.”

  She glanced at the dummy. “He’s a very useful toy, Christian. And you haven’t even thanked me.”

  Madame Vileroy looked at the figure lying almost lifeless on the ground. Letters began to sear themselves across his forehead until the word Buddy was clearly visible. Buddy. The dummy rubbed his forehead as if it burned.

  “There, now he has a name. He can be your buddy.” The letters disappeared. She laughed at her own joke. “He’ll begin making friends with you. After a while, he’ll anticipate your stealing and will try to fight back. After that, he’ll grovel. . . .”

  Christian whispered, “No,” but no sound came out.

  Madame Vileroy smiled. “You’re weak, Christian. That’s why you have to steal. These children around you are not your friends, and neither is Buddy. Learn this quickly.”

  She walked out. Christian stood in the middle of the room with enough energy to run a marathon. His fists clenched and shook. He looked down at the dummy named Buddy and felt helpless and sorry for all the things he’d have to do.

  “You think Christian had a breakdown or something?” asked Belle as they sat around the messed-up room, the table still overturned next to them. None of them really cared enough to clean anything up. They’d just leave when they were done, and the next time they came back, it would be clean. It could have been maids, robots, elves, or slaves — to be honest, they never really thought about it.

  “He just snapped,” said Victoria.

  “It’s always the quiet ones,” said Valentin, “the quiet ones with three black belts.”

  “We should see if he’s all right,” said Bicé.

  They sat together looking at strawberry jam slopping down a pancake, egg yolks torn open on a saltshaker. Victoria finally stood up. “I don’t have time to hang out with losers who can’t control themselves. I have to prep a debate and figure out how to get out of gym.”

  “I’m working on a poem,” said Valentin. “Maybe I can use all this.”

  “I’ll be in my room looking for a potion to remove this,” said Belle, fingering a tiny red mark on her shoulder.

  “You don’t need a potion to remove that,” said Victoria, “just a zit cream.”

  “I don’t want Thomas to see it . . .” Belle mused, her mind wandering again. “I should find out more about Lucy. How could he like her more than me?”

  “Belle, no one will notice a dot,” s
aid Bicé in her most maternal tone. “And you can’t spy on Lucy.”

  “Not spy, sis. Just research. Besides, she’s probably spreading rumors already.”

  “Childish ones like, ‘You smell,’” said Valentin.

  “Cute, Valentin.”

  “That Charlotte girl thinks I’m cute. I should probably spend some time with her. She could be useful.”

  “Well, Miss Priss here might be above it, but I’m going to spy on Lucy,” said Victoria. “See what she’s up to for her Student Council campaign.”

  They all nodded. These were important things to put on their agenda. They each had so much that they wanted. Madame Vileroy would help them keep track, letting them know what they could have if they just did this or that. She’d be there to help them if they ever really wanted something, but otherwise, the house was like a clubhouse, or an island, where they ruled themselves. They were left to their own ambition to get ahead. They could achieve as much or as little as they dared. Victoria, Belle, and Valentin then turned to Bicé, waiting to hear from her. Bicé looked back at them, not getting it.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Victoria.

  Bicé didn’t think it’d be hard to guess. “Me? I’m going to check on Christian.”

  Then Valentin’s faced jerked. His hand flew out of his pocket. He had stuttered half a word. His face blushed, and he wouldn’t look in Bicé’s direction. She couldn’t tell whether she’d heard it in his stutter or just had a sense of it for some reason, but she knew the word he’d tried to keep himself from saying was “Why?”

  “My dear Monsieur Bodin, help me to better understand these theories of yours.”

  “No, please, madame. Let me go.”

  “You’ve said quite a deal on the subject of the witch mark. You had a wonderful closing statement on the poor young man you sentenced to death not long ago.”

  “It’s only theory. I never —”

  “You did. It’s a matter of public record. August 3, 1585. The Inquisitorial trial court of Laon, France. Don’t you remember? Just weeks ago. The boy on trial would have been a glorious dancer, you know — best the world has ever seen.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You said to beware a witch mark on a person’s body, for they are servants of the devil. But he had no mark, did he?”

  “No. It was gone. I saw it in the baths, but then it was —”

  “And so your clever answer was that the court must be more wary of those without the mark, because the devil doesn’t need to mark them. They’ve gained his trust.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “So whether he did or didn’t have a mark — all that talent, my work, sentenced to death.”

  “Please stop this. Please let me go.”

  “Just two more questions, Monsieur Bodin. What makes you think the devil is a he? And why is it that there are no marks on you?”

  That morning, like the morning before, Belle had woken up with parched lips and eyes sealed shut with dried tears. Since the Christmas party, Belle had felt the stench of herself more than ever. It was so much more palpable now that she had hope that it might go away, now that she had someone she wanted, someone who hadn’t stayed. That morning, the morning after the school play, she had stumbled to the bathroom, splashed scalding water on her face again and again until finally she could open her eyes. When she did, she saw her perfect eyes — two crystalline oceans, wracked from a storm, now silent and infinitely sad.

  At breakfast she scooped wedges of grapefruit. She no longer noticed that her breath fermented the bitter juice into rotten wine, or that in the morning, her milk curdled in her cereal bowl. She listened to the chatter, hoping not to catch Bicé looking at her. Then Valentin had laughed about something he had done. Every part of her felt afraid of it. Then Christian overturned the table and for some reason she felt safe afterward.

  She walked to her room with her stomach churning — like after every meal. In the center of the house, she could look in any direction and see down a hall, branching to separate rooms. From above, the house might look like the sun, rays thrusting in every direction. Belle turned toward her hall and saw Madame Vileroy coming down the one next to it — from Christian’s room. Belle said, “Where’s my part of the deal?”

  “Did you do what I asked?”

  “Almost. The guy’s coming, and I’ve got the snack ready.”

  “I know,” said Madame Vileroy.

  Madame Vileroy led Belle down a different hall, one she’d never been down before. Vileroy opened the door to a bathroom that looked more like a fiery lagoon. Its walls were white, but Belle could hardly tell through the eerie red light of the flames. The only light in the room came from the candles sticking out in all directions from the walls — fingers reaching out and on fire. The sharp edges of the cobblestone floor pricked Belle’s feet. In the corner stood an ancient tub on strange legs. Everything here seemed wet, as if the room itself were sweating.

  On the left was a wooden vanity and mirror. Behind it, the wood from the vanity had melded with the walls and seemed to have grown there. It stretched all the way up to the ceiling, making the entire wall behind the vanity look like mahogany. A thousand square cubbies were dug into the wood, and in them were all kinds of glass bottles and jars filled with different-colored powders, elixirs, and stones. She recognized them, all the tonics and pomades that she used every day. Vileroy had added more ingredients. Some of them seemed to be moving in their jars.

  “So you put my stuff in here? That’s it?” said Belle.

  She took a step inside. The air was warm and dewy, like a rain forest.

  “If you stand in the steam,” said Vileroy, touching her face, “it’ll make your skin as soft as mine.”

  “Will it put on my makeup too?” asked Belle.

  “Would you like that?”

  “Not enough to ask.” Belle eyed the tepid water.

  Madame Vileroy walked over to the vanity. She took a glass bottle from a cubby high up on the wall. Belle looked at the label.

  Gray chalk.

  Dried lemons.

  Iridescent scales from a black asp.

  Shards of stained glass from a fallen temple.

  “This isn’t what you promised,” said Belle. “You said I could control it.”

  Vileroy mused, “The unfortunate disconnect of how very pretty you are on the outside . . .”

  “Yes, now give it.”

  “Look behind you.”

  Belle turned around. She eyed the bathtub standing on the ossified legs of four different creatures — a leopard’s paw, a goat’s hoof, a monkey’s hand, and a claw she couldn’t recognize.

  “A bath? That’s not funny.”

  “How else?”

  Vileroy walked to the tub. Belle thought she saw the legs shrink away from her. Vileroy held the bottle over the water and poured out the contents. The glass plopped to the bottom while the scales, chalk, and lemons floated up. Belle stepped closer. She noticed that the bottle in Madame Vileroy’s hand had irresistible written on the side.

  “Bathe in here.”

  “The smell will go away?”

  “Go away? That smell is you, darling. No, it’ll change how people smell it. Their mood, you might say.”

  “So that bottle will make me irresistible to Thomas?”

  “To anyone. There’s a bottle for everything — fascinated, jealous, angry.”

  “Why would I want someone mad at me?”

  “Not at you, around you. You’ll still have to direct their emotions to whatever you want.”

  “I want to be attractive,” said Belle, dabbing a moss-covered stone with her toe.

  “Then get in,” said Madame Vileroy.

  Belle put one foot in. As soon as she put her weight on the foot to lift the other leg over, she felt a shard of glass pierce her skin. Belle jumped out. The ball of her foot was beginning to bleed. She winced, suddenly realizing that the pain was growing to a screech. The water infused with so
ur chalk, lemon juice, and snake oil wet the cut, shooting pincers through her leg. Belle almost collapsed but caught herself on Madame Vileroy’s shoulder. “It’s horrible,” she said.

  “It has to get inside, dear, where your ugliness is.”

  Belle remembered clearly that only a few years ago she had been identical to Bicé. She knew that her best features weren’t really hers. They were Madame Vileroy’s, modeled after her own youth centuries ago. But with these changes Madame Vileroy had given Belle the thing she wanted most desperately: a beautiful outside.

  Belle gathered herself. She knew this was the deal she had made. She couldn’t do anything but take it. Vileroy began to walk out to let her bathe in the horrible cauldron alone. She turned at the door. “If you didn’t like that one,” said Madame Vileroy, “be careful of hope. It’ll boil you alive.”

  A few hallways down, Valentin read over the newest poem that he was sure would top all others. “Wow,” he said to himself as he stared at the parchment. “It’s perfect.” He lifted his pen to put the initials VF at the bottom of the page, as he did with all the poems. Before he got up to leave, he stuffed a few notes and random papers into a drawer and folded the finished poem in half. He put it into his pocket and set off to find Christian. Reading his poems to Christian was a guilty pleasure for Valentin. He knew how much it hurt Christian to listen, and the awe on Christian’s face did wonders for Valentin’s ego.

  “How did you get in here?” said Christian. He was sitting up in his coffin, holding the lid with one strong arm.

  “Door was open,” said Bicé, shrugging. “Just checking to see if you’re OK. What’s wrong with the little man over there?”

  “He’s not real.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Golfing.”

  “Funny.”

  Christian had just been lying there, in his coffin, losing track of the hours. He closed his eyes, opened them — there was no difference in the blackness. The gelatinous liquid rose slowly, burying him, forcing itself through his nose with every breath. At first he would always be panic-stricken for fear of drowning. He clawed at the lid, but it wouldn’t move. Finally, he gagged and swallowed the same gulp over and over again, in and out of his throat. He gasped for air, got only water, vomited the water only to gasp again, and again only water. At the end, his reflexes surrendered. Every time he did this, he thought he was about to die, but then the liquid would suddenly start flowing in and out of his mouth like air. His lungs inflated and deflated, heavy in his chest like water balloons. He thought his eyes were floating in his head, the tiny charged stones in the water scraping them from behind. Christian would lie there, becoming super, thinking about how lucky Valentin was.