Another Faust
Page 19
Valentin sat on his bed, deep in thought. “So what was it?”
“Hmmm?”
“What was it that I missed? What was it that altered everything?”
“Oh . . . it was . . . the stone, dear.”
“How?” Valentin was intrigued, never suspecting the lie, because after all, he wasn’t the most talented of liars. In that, she had many more years of experience.
“Without the stone in the pathway, the maid would never trip and fall. William would never have put aside his writing to tend to her. Yes, he always remembered the gentle look she gave him as he helped her up — the meek and vulnerable eyes that would later inspire the sad state of . . . of Miranda . . . in The Tempest.”
Valentin’s eyes glimmered with recognition and excitement. “Of course! It’s so obvious! Why didn’t I see that?” He was like a child, to whom the tooth fairy sounds so logical.
She shrugged. “You must come to the room often . . . and practice.”
“It’ll take forever to get good at this,” said Valentin, his chin resting on his fist. He was already thinking of the next time.
“There’s time enough for all of it,” she repeated, sitting next to him. “Don’t worry, Valentin.”
In the Highlands, a woman with hair as red as the fires of hell stumbled across the grass on a rain-soaked night, terrified and ecstatic and aching. She sprinted across the pitch in her long dress, the hemline dragging in the puddles of mud. She looked back. Something was chasing her. The tresses of her curls flung themselves around like dancing flames. She fell. Her hands and knees splashed on the green. Behind her a figure loomed upward. A bodice like black death, her skin like a pale horse, her hair yellow like a jaundice plague. She stood above the fallen woman. The sign staked into the ground read: GENTLEMEN ONLY; LADIES FORBIDDEN. The woman’s cheeks were flushed with blood just beneath her supple skin. It would take so little to puncture. The figure knelt beside the woman, hungry. She scrambled away. The figure clutched her foot. The woman fell, sapped of energy, her hair already less vibrant. The figure was on top of her. Teeth, sharp like nails. A laugh, chilling like rain. A scream, lost like children.
“And here we are at the prestigious Hampshire Country Club for the thirteenth annual Mid-Atlantic Regional High School Golf Benefit for Muscular Dystrophy and Attention Deficit Disorder Research, or MARHSGBMDADDR for short. I’m Charlotte Hill, vice president of the Journalism Club at Marlowe, and with me is the handsome Valentin Faust, an honorary member until next year.”
“Thanks, Char. You’re not so bad yourself. As you know, three Marlowe boys will be competing in this match-play tourney, and as always, the Marlowe coach will be using this unofficial opener to the season to choose this year’s captain. Connor Wirth has to be a favorite as last year’s champ and captain. But newcomer Christian Faust is the dark horse, and rumors of international glory have everyone abuzz with what Marlowe’s newest prospect is capable of. To round out the threesome, Thomas Goodman-Brown should have another solid performance.”
Charlotte giggled as she pressed the stop button on her digital voice recorder. At the same time as providing live commentary for the match, she and Valentin were recording their banter for the Journalism Club podcast. “That was great! We sounded so professional!”
“Yeah, it’s fun,” said Valentin. “And Coach K will be glad we mentioned his name.”
“Wait. We didn’t mention Coach K.”
Valentin adjusted the wireless mike on his collar. “Right, my bad.” He blinked as though the light was too bright for him, fidgeted as if he had too much caffeine in his system.
“Well, it was hot,” said Charlotte. “Where’d you learn to do color commentary like that?”
Valentin smiled his dimpled smile. “Practice, I guess. You’re good too.” He touched her on the inside of her elbow, a place she thought incredibly intimate. “Practice and repetition.”
Charlotte actually swooned. She made a droopy look with her eyes and a whiny noise with her throat. Her knees kind of buckled. It was pathetic to see, even from the clubhouse terrace.
Victoria stood on the clubhouse terrace, by the railing, watching Valentin twist Charlotte around his finger. She rolled her eyes. Behind her came a voice: “You ready, or what?” It was Lucy Spencer, standing by the doorway with her arms crossed. The two of them were assigned in Student Council to decorate the clubhouse for the banquet after the tournament. Since Victoria was class president now, she couldn’t say no — though she certainly tried. Thankless chores were not Victoria’s strong suit. They’d be spending the entire afternoon hanging banners. Victoria turned around and walked back toward the all-purpose room, grabbing a step stool on the way. She said in a snarky voice, “Coming, Your Majesty.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow in disgust.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Victoria as she passed her.
“Dream of what?” said Lucy.
“Pulling the ladder out from under you. You must think I’m some kind of monster.”
“You have no idea what I think.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Victoria.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Mrs. Wirth,” said Belle. “Connor is starting at a different hole.” Belle was waiting with a large group of spectators at the hole where Thomas would be starting the match.
“Well, dear, I wouldn’t want to be one of those overbearing mothers, now, would I?” said Mrs. Wirth, adjusting the many items in her purse. “Besides, I have our maid, Martha, sending me updates on the walkie-talkie.”
“Hmm,” breathed Madame Vileroy. She was standing right beside them, but no one had noticed. Madame Vileroy had a way of going back and forth between being the center of a conversation and being almost invisible, lurking around a conversation without distracting any of the participants.
“Connor Wirth isn’t distracted by anything this afternoon as he gets ready to tee off on the second hole.” Valentin had twitched a couple times before the last few sentences. But Charlotte knew that love conquered all things. And she knew she was in love. And her mother knew a great speech pathologist.
“That’s right, Val, he took the first hole easily off of a strong player from Rhode Island.”
“And speaking of strong players, Christian Faust is also making a case for himself. Lucky for us, both of the Marlowe standouts are in the same four-man group.”
“And of course, we’ll be in the golf cart just behind them, bringing you the play-by-play.”
“Isn’t ‘play-by-play’ just for sports that have plays, Char?”
Charlotte pressed the stop button on her recorder.
“I dunno, I just thought it sounded good. But you’re not supposed to mention that kind of thing while we’re recording.”
“No problem, just go back and record over it,” said Valentin.
“All right, fine,” said Charlotte. She rewound a bit and pressed RECORD again. “And of course, we’ll be on course just behind the Marlowe supersquad.”
“‘Supersquad’? Really?”
Charlotte let out a sigh and clicked the stop button again.
“What, what’s wrong with supersquad?”
“Just sounds a bit Cosmo Girl is all,” said Valentin. “For a writer, I just thought you’d be better at, you know, talking.”
Charlotte looked like the air had been let out of her. “That’s mean,” she said, looking down. “I’m the best writer at Marlowe’ and I might win State. You’re just mean.”
“It’s not mean,” said Valentin, oblivious to the fact that Charlotte’s eyes were welling up. “I’d think you’d be used to criticism. Try it again.”
“I don’t want to. If you’re so good, you do it.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“That’s ridiculous. Just do it again. That’s why there’s a rewind button on the stupid thing. See?” He pointed to the digital recorder as if demonstrating to a four-year-old. “So you can do it again and again till yo
u get it right. It’s not a big deal.”
“Hey,” said Christian, looking back from his ready position over a ball resting tentatively on his tee, “can you two keep it down?”
“Yeah,” said Connor, “this takes a little more concentration than recording yourself gab.”
“Shut the hell up, Connor.”
“What did you say, Valentin?”
Valentin didn’t even bother answering. He just slammed his foot on the gas pedal of his golf cart and started barreling toward Connor on the green. Christian yelled and dived out of the way. Charlotte screamed, but Valentin pushed her and sent her flying out of the cart. The look on Connor’s face froze just before he got pounded by the cart — the cart started going backward, Charlotte flew back in. Everything went back until Charlotte was saying, “. . . golf cart just behind them, bringing you the play-by-play.”
She looked at him with a big faux smile, as though the listeners could see her as well. Valentin had a distant look on his face, a thousand-mile gaze, as if he were depressed. He looked up at her, squeezed out a grin, and said, “Sure will, Charlotte! We’ll be here with real-time box scores.”
“That was great!” said Charlotte.
Valentin shrugged. The best in the state. It’s almost depressing.
Christian swung the club and snapped the ball into the air. Valentin looked up into the blue sky — so bright it was hazy — to find it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t track the course of the ball.
Mrs. Wirth tracked the entire course of Connor’s play, even though she wasn’t one of those overbearing mothers. Between bouts of yelling at Martha through her walkie-talkie, she quizzed Bicé about her plans for her future. “What are you planning to do with all those brains, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll translate all the garbage on the Internet for foreign countries.”
“Is that really a good use of your talent?” said Mrs. Wirth, in a very serious voice.
Bicé shrugged. “I’d say helping the Uzbeks get on Facebook is a noble cause. . . .” Bicé just trailed off, as if she were speaking to herself.
“Beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Wirth.
“. . . get those Papua New Guineans on the blogosphere . . .”
Mrs. Wirth just looked at her and started blinking. Faster and faster. As if she were trying to start the motor in her brain.
“. . . age-old question . . .” Bicé was saying.
Mrs. Wirth turned her attention to Thomas, who was joking with his opponent. Thomas’s dad was in the group, walking with Belle. He was in his forties and still handsome. With that salt-and-pepper hair and massive fortune, he was the most eligible bachelor in town. But despite Mrs. Wirth’s constant gossip-mongering, he wasn’t looking for anyone new. Behind that natural tan, he was a romantic, still married to his dead wife. And the way he said “sweetheart” to Belle made him seem like a much older man — like somebody’s grandpa or Santa Claus.
Thomas wasn’t so good at golf, but he knew how to charm people. His dad always said that it was smart of him to have taken up the sport. Future bank presidents don’t play golf to win. Thomas was letting his opponent take a practice swing with his favorite club. Mrs. Wirth said to Thomas’s dad, “He’s certainly friendly, isn’t he, Charles?” But he was too busy talking to Belle and inadvertently ignored her. Mrs. Wirth looked back at Bicé, who was still talking to herself. She shook her head and barked into her walkie-talkie, “Martha. Martha! Dondé está my son?”
“Thomas looks nervous, doesn’t he?” Thomas’s dad said to Belle. “I’ve told him it’s only a game. . . . Oh, there he goes. Off to the fifth.”
“Fifth what?”
“Fifth hole. You know why I think he’s nervous?”
“Why?” asked Belle.
“Because golf is one thing he’s not great at. His friend Connor, he’s the best. And Thomas isn’t used to that. He likes to play, though. He plays with me and my friends.”
Belle knew about Mr. Goodman-Brown’s friends. They were on the cover of Fortune every other week. Charles Goodman-Brown was the CEO of one of the largest private banks in New York. Everyone, especially Belle, knew who his friends were.
All this time, Belle could feel Madame Vileroy’s presence behind her.
Outside the cluster of buzzing parents, friends, and disqualified competitors, Madame Vileroy looked for a place to interject. She came to speak to a pair of mothers from another school, but they were busily conversing about the newest diet craze. She turned to Mrs. Wirth only to find that she was now engrossed in an attempt to wrangle a donation for Marlowe. Once again, Madame Vileroy found herself on the outside of every cluster, every conversation. And so she sat back and watched.
Behind Madame Vileroy, Maggie followed Belle like a droid. She had an undead look to her, compelled by the light of Belle, addicted to her, but afraid to get too close. Mrs. Wirth, who had an explanation for everything, shook her head and thought, Poor girl. Sooner or later, she is bound to get ahold of her mother’s stash of Valium.
“I don’t know what high school from whatever backwater part of Asia you came from, but there’s a specific way of decorating for banquets. So just do as I say and we’ll be fine,” said Lucy.
Victoria thought about breaking the punch bowl over her head.
“And here we are at the end of the first round of play. Connor Wirth and Christian Faust ate their opponents for breakfast.”
“You should invite Thomas over,” whispered Madame Vileroy to Belle. She lingered just behind Belle’s shoulders, so close that Belle could hear her breathe. She could almost feel the governess’s deep-blue eyes on Thomas — the way that one scary eye focused right in on whatever Vileroy wanted. Thomas’s dad was still holding Belle’s arm, talking about the intricacies of the grain in the putting green. He somehow couldn’t hear their conversation.
Belle said, “Why?”
“Because I’d like that.”
“Why do you care so much what these people do, anyway? Why are you always trying to get close to them?”
“Because their actions have the widest ripples.”
“What?” said Belle, remembering another time when her governess had mentioned ripples. When she had taught her a lesson in reading people. In spotting reactions and consequences. Vileroy had taught her because she was the favorite.
Just like a daughter.
“Think, my dear. What can I possibly accomplish with an average person? If I worked my hardest, if I used my best tricks, what is the worst he would do?”
“I don’t know.” Belle shrugged. “Kill someone?”
“And then what would happen?”
“He’d go to jail, I guess.”
“And the total damage?” Vileroy sounded like she was instructing a remedial math class.
“Huh?”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “A few people would be dead, a few would be hurt, and then the fool would be put away. But these people — they make huge ripples,” she said.
“Like what?” asked Belle.
Madame Vileroy pointed to a balding executive with his hands in his pockets. “Take that one over there. He’d think big, like an entrepreneur. He’d channel money away from starving economies, maybe pump some of the profits into the pockets of politicians, maybe use some of it to erase some dirty dealings, buy some drugs, sell some drugs, fund an illegal gambling ring, separate a few hundred families from their life savings, and pour it all into some shoddy product made by starving children. He would have a good ten years of momentum before he ever got caught. How many people do you think that would affect? Ripples, my dear Belle. That’s what I like. That’s what I look for. Never make the mistake of counting all lives as equal. Never.”
Thomas hooked the ball right into the water. Belle cringed.
“We won’t hold his golf skills against him,” Madame Vileroy said.
“I don’t want him in our house.”
“Don’t worry, dear. He won’t know your secrets.”
“It means secrets have a way of getting out, and you have plenty.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Not on purpose, dear; they just have a way of getting out.”
Thomas’s dad seemed to have said something. Belle glanced at him, and then back at Madame Vileroy. Her gaze fell on the freckle on the back of Vileroy’s hand, and then the one on her wrist, and the three freckles forming a triangle by her elbow. Then she glanced at her own arm, where little brown spots formed the exact same formations — a reminder of their unbreakable connection, formed the moment Belle had accepted Vileroy’s beautiful exterior. Thomas’s dad repeated what he’d said. It was a question addressed to Belle. She turned, enraged, from Vileroy. “Hmm?”
“I was just asking if you saw him whack that out of the sand trap.”
“No, I didn’t. You know, Mr. Goodman-Brown, I was wondering if you’d let Thomas come to our house for dinner next Sunday night. I know it’s a school night, but he’d get to know my family better . . . and Madame Vileroy.”
“Call me Charles. And of course he can go to your house.”
“Go to hell, you jealous troll. Hand me those balloons.”
“Slut.”
“Wench.”
“You’d need a winch to get out of those woods. Christian Faust has gotten himself in a doozy of a pickle with a drive that sliced well into the forest.”
“Shut up, Val!” Christian shouted to the golf cart from the green.
“Whoa there, captain. Not my fault you shanked it.”
“Your brother seems really mad,” said Charlotte.
“Yeah, he’s one of those ‘born winners.’ Isn’t that right, Christian?”