Another Faust

by Daniel Nayeri

  “Hey, you’re that language girl, right?”

  Bicé didn’t say anything.

  “We thought you’d like to learn Kashmiri. We wrote down some words. Here, have a look.”

  She showed Bicé her list, handwritten in pretty girlish loops. “Come and sit with us, and we’ll teach you how to say it.”

  Bicé, who was looking at the paper with deep concentration, barely looked up as she allowed the girl to lead her to their table. She sat silently as they coaxed her to say a few phrases, as they told her to repeat this or to enunciate that. “This is the word for hello.” “This is how you ask for a nearby restaurant.” “This is how you introduce your family.”

  Finally, after about ten minutes, Bicé looked up.

  “This word doesn’t mean restaurant.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Pamposh said innocently.

  “Well, if it does, then I bet Urdu-speaking tourists don’t eat out in Kashmir too often . . .”

  “What?”

  “And that part there, that doesn’t mean ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ It’s really gross.” Bicé kept reading. “And I’m not saying any of that stuff about a big ape — that’s obviously about Christian.”

  Pamposh, who, instead of feeling embarrassed, had decided to focus on the injustice of Bicé’s apparent deception, crossed his arms and sat back. He watched as Bicé kept poring over his hilarious Kashmiri insults, deciphering each one slowly, sometimes writing notes. She was like an archeologist digging through petrified excrement (which he had inadvertently provided). He didn’t exactly cherish the position.

  “What, so you picked up Kashmiri in the last three hours?”

  At times like this, when Bicé thought that her classmates really wanted an explanation, when she assumed that a reasonable answer would make her loved, these were the moments when she felt happy — and then, afterward, the most alone. The applause-winning defense argument just before the guilty verdict. But no matter how often it happened, she never saw it coming.

  She folded the paper, a bit too excitedly.

  “No, no! See, once you know seven or eight languages in the same family, the ninth one comes easy. You don’t need a class or anything. Just a good conversation and an hour with a dictionary . . .”

  They weren’t impressed. Bicé went on.

  “You can use the other languages — the syntax and roots and common words . . .”

  When no one answered, Bicé faltered, thinking that they didn’t understand.

  “There are families of languages, see? Spanish, Italian, Portuguese.” She counted on her fingers. “Those are Romance languages.”

  Still no response.

  “Well, you have yours, right? The Indo-Aryan languages? Punjabi, Gujarati, Kashmiri? You see?”

  After a moment, she saw that they didn’t care. That they weren’t looking for a lesson. That she had once again misread the moment. So she cleared her throat and whispered in a faint, singsong voice, “Klingon, Wookie, Elvish . . .”

  No one got the joke.

  At lunchtime, Marlowe’s halls filled with popped collars, hot-pink cell phones, and bento boxes full of unagi. Bicé stood aimlessly outside the library, surveying the chatting teenagers in their Marlowe uniforms, their gray-and-navy blazers, slacks and skirts, and crisp white shirts. She was tempted to turn around and go home. Or to stop everything and explore the school alone. Or to just hide right there for a few more minutes. More than anything, Bicé hated crowds. She thought she’d return to the library, spend the lunch hour reading or deciphering another family of languages, maybe some Native American ones. But then from the corner of her eye, she spotted Belle walking urgently toward the girls’ room. Forgetting about her pathetically short list of lunch options, Bicé got an overwhelming desire to look out for her sister. She followed her into the bathroom, shrinking back into the corner as Belle entered a stall. The door to the bathroom suddenly opened again, and Bicé had to duck behind it as a bouncy blonde with a ponytail walked in and started knocking on each stall.

  “I’m in here, Mags,” Bicé heard her sister’s hoarse voice coming out of the stall. “Don’t worry. There’s no one else in here.”

  Bicé wondered what they were doing lingering in a bathroom. Shouldn’t Belle be off making her lunchtime entrance? Belle’s dining hall entrances were never discreet. When she drifted through the heavy double doors, the whole school turned to watch, dropping their half-eaten sandwiches, abandoning their candy bars and conversations. When she approached a table, people made room, desperate to be closer to her. She was Marlowe’s collective addiction, permeating the heart of the school with every gust of wind.

  Maggie tried to step inside, but there was very little room in the stall. They let the door swing open carelessly. Inside, Bicé saw the two of them hovering over Belle’s handbag. In turn, each of them reached into Belle’s bag and popped a handful of pills. Maggie almost had a fit of giggles, and Belle had to put a hand over her mouth to silence her. Bicé, feeling sad and shocked, found the first opportunity to leave her hiding place and duck into an empty classroom.

  Ever since that fateful day in late July, “fugly Friday,” as she called it, Mrs. Wirth would not come near the Health and Racquet Club in Rockefeller Center, where all the ladies congregated after a long afternoon of “shopping till they drop!” (“they” being the servants.) The ladies would sit around the fitness lagoon discussing how tacky the phrase “bargain hunting” was, how wacky a kiwi-amino acid smoothie tasted, and how delectable the physical trainers looked when they demonstrated the ellipticals. So now on Friday afternoons, Mrs. Wirth avoided the health club like last season’s thigh-highs. In fact, on this particular day, she couldn’t be further from the “ladies who lunch ’n crunch.” She stepped into Payard Patisserie and pointed to the fruit tarts on the third shelf, the hazelnut mousse on the fourth, the majority of the macaroons on shelf number one, and just about all that she could carry from shelves two, five, and six (except the banana pudding, which she heard was made with buttercream, which was a “don’t” on her No Buttercream Diet). Mrs. Wirth ordered her nonfat cappuccino along with the tasties, taking a cannoli “for the road” to her table. She was trying to scoop out the cream with her tongue, smashing her shopping bags into other patrons’ faces, when she noticed Nicola Vileroy sitting in a corner alcove, all by herself. She waved a hand in the air. “Yoo hoo! Nicola, dear!”

  Vileroy didn’t turn to look.

  Mrs. Wirth pouted and went right over. “Nicola? Nicola!”

  Madame Vileroy was seated at an empty table, staring — she seemed mindless — straight into a blank patch of wall. She wasn’t blinking, and her chest, under her handwoven lace-trimmed, form-fitting black dress, didn’t seem to rise and fall with breaths in the familiar human way. She was catatonic. Mrs. Wirth sat directly in front of her. If Madame Vileroy noticed her presence, or if she noticed anything, she didn’t let on.

  “Nicola, dear. Aren’t you going to say hello?” Mrs. Wirth waved a hand in front of her face. “Would you like half my cannoli?”

  Nothing. Mrs. Wirth reached out and touched Vileroy’s hand. It was cold like an empty basement. Mrs. Wirth pinched her slightly, then pinched her as hard as she could. She dug her nails into the skin she had folded up on the back of Vileroy’s hand, but nothing. It was as though Madame Vileroy felt nothing, heard, saw, smelled, tasted nothing. She lacked all senses — all good and bad sensations of the world.

  Madame Vileroy awoke to see Mrs. Wirth poking her hand with a fork.

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Wirth, retracting the silver. “Are you OK? I was about to call an ambulance.”

  “No need,” said Madame Vileroy, forcing a smile, obviously flustered for the first time since Mrs. Wirth had known her. Vileroy put one hand to the bun in her hair, looked around as though wondering where she was, grabbed Mrs. Wirth’s steaming-hot nonfat cappuccino, and drank it in one gulp.

  “Nicola, darling, how are you? You scared me half to death,”
said Mrs. Wirth.

  Madame Vileroy’s face slowly melted into an oozing honey-soaked smile. “Care for a little indulgence?” she invited her new friend. Slowly, Mrs. Wirth forgot about her shock and became mesmerized by the magic of this woman’s presence.

  “Well, I really shouldn’t. They’re wrapping up my pastries now. Though it’s tempting . . .”

  “Who says you shouldn’t give into temptation once in a while? As we say in Paris, Tout en modération, même modération. Everything in moderation, even moderation.”

  “Oooh,” said Mrs. Wirth. “Yes, well, in that case . . .”

  Mrs. Wirth tried to hail a waiter, but none of them noticed her. Madame Vileroy coughed gently into her hand. Suddenly a handsome young waiter brought a cup of Darjeeling tea and Mrs. Wirth’s favorite dessert, a piece of devil’s food cake — strange, since the restaurant didn’t serve devil’s food cake. Mrs. Wirth just sat, dumbfounded, as the waiter brought Madame Vileroy a red apple tart and a cup of Earl Grey. Madame Vileroy picked up her fork. She looked at the tart for a moment, then shot the waiter a glance, which was enough to cause him to quickly remove the raspberry from the top. As Mrs. Wirth tried to work out what had just happened in her head, as she tried to cook up some explanation or another, Madame Vileroy patiently ate her tart, took a long, thoughtful sip of her tea, and thought of all the casual sins that might liven up a lazy afternoon.

  “What are you doing here?” Mrs. Wirth asked.

  “Just putting together a present for Valentin.”

  “Oh! Is it his birthday?”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Wirth waited, but no more information was forthcoming.

  “Genevieve, dear,” said Madame Vileroy after a brief pause, “I hear your son is competing in the golf tournament.”

  “Oh, yes!” Mrs. Wirth beamed. “My Connor always wins. He’s very good.”

  “I know,” said Madame Vileroy sweetly. “I was at practice the other day. To watch Christian.”

  “Wonderful.” Mrs. Wirth took a bite of cake.

  “I was concerned. Connor looked a bit . . . listless.”

  Mrs. Wirth looked up from her cake. “What do you mean?”

  Madame Vileroy shrugged. “It just looked like someone had sucked the energy right out of him. . . .”

  Mrs. Wirth was worried now. “Should I call his doctor?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s not as serious as that,” said Madame Vileroy. “Teenagers are always tired. I just hope he doesn’t have a sudden bout of adolescent lethargy at the tournament.”

  Mrs. Wirth gave an uneasy smile.

  Madame Vileroy waited. She loved uncomfortable silences.

  “Good cake,” said Mrs. Wirth, fidgeting.

  “Mmmm.” Madame Vileroy waited. No need to strain oneself with unnecessary digging. Mrs. Wirth would soon volunteer any useful tidbits herself.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Wirth thought of something to say. “Thomas is playing too, you know. And his father, Charles, is coming.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He’s a lovely man. And such a good heart. He’s working on a business deal to bring money to poor families in Turkey. Working with one of those formerly rich foreign philanthropists. Yamin, he’s called. A Turk. They say he drove himself into debt trying to build some humanitarian finance organization. Charles is helping now.”

  “Hmm,” said Madame Vileroy. “Well, this has been lovely, Genevieve, but I must run.”

  Mrs. Wirth was in the middle of a sip of tea. She swallowed hard and said, “Oh!” as though she were very disappointed.

  “I have a gift to arrange.” Madame Vileroy winked at her new friend.

  “That’s right, Valentin’s gift,” said Mrs. Wirth. “What are you giving him?”

  Nicola Vileroy tilted her head, squinted thoughtfully at the vapid old socialite, and simply said, “Something to mesmerize and delight him. Something absolutely ethereal that would capture his imagination and not let go.”

  “Ooh, Nintendo, how lovely!” Mrs. Wirth squeaked as Madame Vileroy rubbed her aching head and silently called the waiter for a double espresso — to go.

  Nicola Vileroy enjoyed her evenings alone. While the children slept, she walked through the house and kept watch. She was unseen, unheard, her steps making no noise, her breath producing no heat. She simply slid through their rooms, like a vigilant mother guarding her young, and planned for the day ahead. Usually, the children were already asleep, and the governess remained in her own world. She didn’t have to stand tall, keeping her posture regal. She stooped just a little. Her blond bun was far from tidy, tentacles of straggly hair escaping from all sides. Her branded eye did not shine blue, as in the light of day, but glowed dark and terrible by the harsh half-light of this house of eternal night. In the black of the house, there was no noise, except for the flutter of a few moths and the breathing of sleeping children. But tonight, as the governess made her rounds, as her long fingers hovered over Belle’s beautiful body, coming just short of touching her, she heard a new sound, something she had not heard before, coming from across the room.

  Madame Vileroy turned to look in the direction of Bicé’s bed, where she heard the girl whispering to herself, her head covered by her gray bedsheets. Ordinarily, the sound of children talking in their sleep, the vibrant soundtrack of their nightmares, barely moved the governess. But tonight, something was different. She moved toward Bicé’s bed. First she caught a word, and then another. Whispers in another tongue. She is close. She is far too close. Vileroy’s hands shook as she leaned over the tiny lump of gray that was Bicé’s frail body. She came to touch her, her bony hand shivering only inches from her back. But then, without a word, she pulled her hand back and glided out of the room, her back straight, her posture regal, her mind set on the day ahead. She had Valentin’s new gift to think about. As for Bicé, she had no more gifts for her, because as any good governess knows, too many presents spoil a child, and who wants a child that’s so out of one’s control?

  “No, William, we are not puckish. We do not steal for sport. We are not deformed and lonely misanthropes, or else you’d never have had me — the dark lady for your sonnets — so kind to you. Am I not, William? I’ve been no villain. We build them, you see. Entire civilizations on the shoulders of a few. Like the first mother, we are mothers to the first among us — the great ones. A sisterhood to keep order. Weird perhaps — that would be better put, I think — a guild of weird sisters.”

  “Weird sisters . . . that was only a dream.”

  “No, William. It was no dream. No fit of delirium. You must believe that this is so. A mirage would not have been so real. It could not have inspired you to write your famous plays — the plays that made you great, and not merely the butcher’s son.”

  “What are you doing there?” said Valentin, biting into an unripe peach and joining Bicé at the table in the center space of their home.

  “Just reading,” said Bicé. She was surrounded by a pile of scribbled pages full of indecipherable letters. “Trying to figure out this text.”

  He peeked over her shoulder and sank into a chair. “Don’t you ever get bored with all that reading?”

  “Don’t you ever get bored writing?”

  “Yeah, but at least that has a purpose. What are you doing exactly? I mean, listen, sis, you should find something to work toward. You’re way smarter than Victoria.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seriously. Why not?”

  Bicé wanted to tell him all that she felt, how much she hated this place, how she had nowhere else to go except in her own mind. That being adopted isn’t so great if you wind up all alone in the end. Maybe he’d understand that she just needed someplace to go. But he would never understand. He was having fun. He didn’t know what it was like to be a twin and then suddenly not to be. But she didn’t tell him any of these things. She just smiled and said “thanks” again.

  “Why not go do something with Belle and her friends? She knows practically everyone n
ow,” Valentin persisted.

  Bicé shrugged. “No, she doesn’t want me around.”

  Valentin, seeing the pained look on Bicé’s face, tried a bit harder. “OK, so I understand if Belle’s too busy and you don’t want to hang with Vic, but it can’t be good to be alone all the time.”

  “OK, maybe later,” Bicé said, and went back to her reading.

  For a few moments, Val just chewed and stared at Bicé. “Notice anything about Vileroy lately?” said Valentin.

  “Hmm?”

  “She’s just so . . . mysterious . . . so hard to figure out.” He sighed loudly.

  “Seems the same to me.”

  He watched her as she continued to read. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. Then his face fell and he started poking at his peach. “Bicé, do you want to hear a really good story?”

  Bicé looked up.

  He leaned close.

  “I have a story that’s much better than anything in that book,” Valentin whispered.

  She looked at him but kept silent. Something inside her felt as though she had been waiting for this story all day. Or maybe she had heard it before. Maybe she had heard it over and over again in a hundred different ways, in some parallel reality that was never allowed to remain in her memory. Maybe this, too, would be only a momentary answer to all her questions.

  “Do you want to hear it?” he asked, his eyes sad. “Should I tell it to you?”

  She nodded.

  “Once upon a time,” he began, with all the usual Valentin drama, “there was a beautiful mother with five children . . .”

  Bicé giggled a little. Valentin went on.

  “. . . five sad, unloved, unhappy kids.”

  Bicé stopped laughing. Valentin wasn’t trying to be entertaining anymore. She had never seen him look so sad. She squirmed in her seat.

  “There was a favorite, of course. One that she had promised to love. . . . He was the most unloved of all of them.”

  “Valentin . . .” Bicé reached for his hand. She didn’t care much about the story anymore. “Don’t say these things.”