Jules, where are you today? Would you be worried for Simone with me, or would you be convinced all was well?
She and the merchant agreed upon a price, and Nathalie slipped the ring on her fourth finger.
Her feet were tired. She’d been wanting to take something called a “rickshaw” ride, where men with broad hats that came to a small point in the center pulled a sort of one-wheeled wagon. Someone hurried in front of her just as she was about to signal one, so that would have to wait until another day. With a sigh, she turned away. Her ability to stay distracted was waning; she was ready to go home anyway.
Nathalie was accustomed to crowds. The collective sight, sound, smell, mood, feeling. She’d seen them shrink and swell, ecstatic and fuming, and pulsating with anticipation. And so it was that, when she observed a shift, subtle at first and then brazenly frenetic, she followed. Dread was close behind, fastened to her with a leash around her throat.
Hundreds of people gathered toward the front of the Tour Eiffel, near the Mexican Aztec palace and some of the South American pavilions. She couldn’t get anywhere near whatever it was they were seeing, but the Venezuela Pavilion seemed to be the focal point. The gasps and susurration of voices traveled back to her, a rustling of leaves before a storm. When she heard someone cry out, she was certain she knew.
She’d heard a cry like that before.
Nathalie nudged her way through the crowd and got a few rows closer, but the phalanx of onlookers was too dense to penetrate. Even with her height, she couldn’t see anything but people.
“What’s there?” she asked a woman beside her.
“Nie rozumiem.”
Russian, Polish, Czech. Something she didn’t speak.
“Does anyone know what’s there?” she asked aloud.
No one replied. They either didn’t understand her or didn’t know. Or they were too appalled to say.
Just then, the crowd moved forward, as if heaving a sigh, and back again. Long enough for her to get a glimpse of a shallow staircase—eight or nine steps. At the top of the bannister and to the left, in a birdcage, was a young woman’s decapitated head.
37
It was not Simone.
“Grâce à Dieu,” Nathalie uttered, putting her fingers to her lips.
Before that moment, she’d felt as if a leg of the Tour Eiffel had been crushing her chest. Now, she felt mollified while also being unspeakably perturbed. And guilty—she shouldn’t have thanked God, she decided a moment after doing so. A life had still been taken.
The young woman, neck swathed in a white scarf, had la coiffure à la Titus, and it was the most jarring display of the style yet. Never before had the cut hair appeared with the head. This time the long, dark blond locks were draped beside it, like the shawl Nathalie had left on the bannister at the theater. On that night, the one that had since symbolized Jules’s betrayal.
Red, white, and blue flowers encircled the birdcage; some had fallen to the ground. Nathalie wasn’t close enough to see but knew those petals had to be soaked in blood.
She stood there, fixated on the scene until the police arrived and compelled the crowd to disperse. They surrounded the head of the presumed Princess, shielding the public’s view.
There was nothing else to see, and she couldn’t use her gift. Not here, not yet.
She trekked home. She’d sweated through her dress and wanted to change before going back to the morgue. Simone’s whereabouts were still a mystery, and until Nathalie could verify her friend’s safety, she wasn’t going to stop searching. She knew it was possible she was wrong; in fact, she wanted nothing more than to be mistaken, to have assumed something far afield from the truth. Her conscience wouldn’t allow for that possibility, even if her rational self did.
The Marchands’ apartment was on the second floor. She was going to stop there first, though she wasn’t sure what she was going to say; it depended on who answered the door. Best to be casual until she could talk to Christophe about what, if anything, to do next.
Outside the apartment door, she stood straight. Being tall always felt like an advantage when she was uncomfortable. Raising herself to her full height made her calmer and more confident, even when she was anything but.
Nathalie knocked; the doorknob turned before she withdrew her hand. When the door opened, she jumped.
“Simone!” She threw herself across the threshold to embrace her friend. “I’ve been so worried about you. What happened? Where have you been? Did you get my note?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever given me so enthusiastic a reception. Maybe you should worry about me more often,” Simone said in a scratchy voice, giving her a kiss. “I received the note you left with Céleste, yes. And I left one with your father. You didn’t see it?”
Nathalie peered over Simone’s shoulder to see Céleste waving from the sofa. Now wasn’t the time to say why she’d been so concerned. “I haven’t been home in a while. I, uh, decided to stop by here on my way up, and…” Her voice fell away as she studied Simone’s face. Dark undereye circles, bloodshot eyes, an overall appearance of fatigue. Even her usual rosewater scent was absent. This wasn’t the Simone she was accustomed to seeing. “What happened to you?”
“Happened?”
“You don’t seem … yourself. Are you sick?”
Simone snorted. “Not in the traditional sense. I’ll come up and tell you what happened. Let me finish up my backgammon game with Céleste. Shouldn’t be long because someone is about to win,” she said over her shoulder to the little girl, who giggled and pointed to herself for Nathalie’s benefit.
Nathalie winked at Céleste and said goodbye to Simone, giving her one more embrace before turning to the stairs.
Maman and Papa weren’t home. Only ever-faithful Stanley, who sniffed the hem of her dress excessively as soon as she entered. “Yes, you smell kittens. You have nothing to worry about; they’re Simone’s. Speaking of which, where did Papa put her note?”
She saw the folded paper on the dining room table.
Apologies, N. You were correct about our meeting time and place. L. and I were able neither to go to the Exposition nor to communicate that to you. All is well now. I hope you are not angry with me. I am sorry and will explain.
Nathalie read the note again, trying to decipher if there were any clues in there. Presumably Simone didn’t want to risk Papa or anyone else reading it and gleaning details.
Before she had time to reflect further, there was a tap on the door.
“It’s unlocked,” said Nathalie, putting the note down again.
Simone came in, closing the door behind her. She leaned her back against it with a theatrical exhale. She took a fan out of her pocket and fanned herself.
“Your note was vague.” Nathalie motioned for Simone to join her on the sofa. “Deliberately so, I presume. Why so mysterious?”
Simone half strolled, half waltzed toward her. “You know that vin de coca we had at my place?”
“Yes,” said Nathalie. Moving a pillow to the side, she sat on the sofa. “Even I couldn’t forget that, no matter how many visions I have.”
“Louis and I went to a party the night before last, some of his acting troupe friends, and had … a lot of vin de coca.” Simone joined Nathalie on the sofa and whispered in her ear. “A lot a lot.”
“So? You had too much to drink. I’m sure that’s not the first time.”
Simone shook her head lazily and fanned herself some more. “I have never, ever been in a state like that. Nathalie, it was both glorious and miserable. Louis was hilarious. We danced and laughed and slept and woke up again and ate and drank some more. Ten of us.”
“How long did this go on?” Nathalie’s mouth was pinched so tight, she could barely get out the question.
“We completely lost all sense of time,” Simone said, throwing up her hands with a giggle. “The party was Thursday night, and nobody truly roused until this morning. I came straight here a couple of hours ago.”
; Nathalie clenched her jaw. This wasn’t funny at all. She’d been on the verge of paranoia, letting herself think a murderer might have targeted her best friend (again), meanwhile Simone and Louis spent a day and then some drunk on vin de coca?
Suddenly the joy and relief she’d felt upon seeing Simone dissolved into simmering resentment. “What is the matter with you, Simone? It’s all well and good to have fun and partake in indulgences here and there. But this?”
“We didn’t plan it that way.”
“That, I know. The plans you did make you broke.”
Simone snapped her fan shut and folded her arms. “Remind me again. Is your name Nathalie Baudin or Irene Marchand?”
“It’s not about missing our evening out or going to some abandoned theater.” Nathalie’s brows knit together. “It’s about prudence.”
“Ah,” said Simone, putting up her hand. “Your name is Irene Marchand. I’m glad you clarified that, Maman.”
Nathalie stood. “Take your mother out of it. And your father. And me as well. Even your kittens, who are fine by the way, as I let myself in and left you a note.”
“I always leave plenty of food and water for them. I don’t mind that you let yourself in, but that was an unnecessary panic.” Simone rolled her eyes.
“Like I said,” said Nathalie, rolling her eyes in return, “take almost everyone else out of it if that makes you feel better. You do have a younger sister. Did you ever think of that? How devastated Céleste would be if anything ever happened to you?”
Roger came to mind as soon as the words left her. The bothersome little brother who played pranks on Agnès and irked her as younger siblings do. The boy who lost a part of himself when she died, a hole in his heart a lifetime wouldn’t fix.
“You’re making too much of this, Nathalie. I indulged in narcotic wine for a day.” Simone folded her arms again. “If we didn’t make plans to see each other, you wouldn’t have even known.”
Nathalie threw up her hands. “There’s a murderer on the streets beheading people. We had reason to think he’d be choosing a Princess next. A Young Prince, too. Can you blame me for deriving a hasty conclusion?”
“Millions of people live in this city,” Simone said, her gaze hard. “And there are millions more visiting this summer. If you truly thought Le Rasoir came after me…” She closed her eyes and opened them again. “I’ll present it this way. Your guilt about Agnès is coloring your viewpoint.”
Nathalie gave her an unflinching look in return. “Yes, it is. It unquestionably is.”
Simone softened at this, and for the first time in this tense conversation, she seemed to have heard what Nathalie said.
“Don’t be reckless,” Nathalie said, “that’s all I’m asking. Keep your risks in check.”
As soon as she said it, she understood something else. Christophe. All those times he’d come just short of scolding her about putting herself in potentially perilous situations. How he’d asked her to be careful more than once, and while she always promised to, caution didn’t always lead the way. She’d been flattered and amused by it, but she hadn’t taken him seriously enough.
Simone put her hand on Nathalie’s forearm. “I’m sorry to have worried you so. And I’m sorry to bring up Agnès. That was unkind.”
Although Simone never said it, Nathalie often wondered if she was envious of Agnès. Or rather, the memory of Agnès. How could one live up to the idealized spirit of a friend, preserved in time with the benevolent lens through which we sometimes see the deceased?
“Thank you,” said Nathalie. She didn’t want to prolong this; they had too much to discuss. “Now, I have a lot to tell you. Including what I just saw at the Exposition. How long can you stay?”
38
Obtaining a vision in the refrigeration room might have felt eerily familiar to Nathalie, had that memory not been taken from her.
Several hours after talking to Simone, she found herself recreating a scenario she knew only through her own written description of it. She’d recorded her experience with Enzo Farini, the first of Le Rasoir’s victims to come into the morgue. Of all memories to have to reconstruct.
She stood with Christophe and Dr. Nicot, ready to invoke a vision. With a forced swallow in a dry throat, she observed the face before her.
The Princess was older than Nathalie, closer to Gabrielle’s age. The beauty of her face was striking, even in this state. Nathalie was so unsettled by this up-close view, she wasn’t certain she could go through with it.
The victim had beautifully angled cheekbones and long lashes. Nathalie imagined captivating eyes under those forever-shut lids. They’d placed her silky, pin-straight hair alongside her on the slab.
There was something about the victim’s face, too. As if she were on the cusp of telling a story when she was killed.
Nathalie wasn’t sure she could do this.
You have to.
Why?
Because this is what you do, it’s who you are.
Was it?
“Do you need some time?” asked Christophe.
She shook her head.
Christophe held the decapitated head of the Princess on a cloth for Nathalie, like before. She could tell he was eager to put it down.
This time, rather than Jules positioning the glass, it was Dr. Nicot. “Like so?”
“Yes, that’ll do.”
She hesitated, making eye contact with Christophe.
He nodded in encouragement.
Her right hand hovered over the pane of glass, as if she were afraid touching it would burn her. She lowered her hand until her fingertips grazed the glass.
Again the vision was in reverse. The guillotine was about to touch the young woman’s neck. It shot up to the top of the structure. The hand holding the release rope let go and stepped backward.
Blackness dropped, then disappeared, and she saw the victim. The Princess bowed over a script. Her tears trickled.
Up her cheeks instead of down.
Blackness again. The murderer walked backward past a table with a playbill on it, a palette of stage makeup, a white scarf, and a basket of red, white, and blue flowers.
When she came to, both Christophe and Dr. Nicot looked as though they wanted to speak. They remained silent.
A knock at the door seemed to startle them. It was M. Soucy.
“Yes?” Christophe called.
“An American came into the display room with an interpreter asking for help. He wants to see if the body—I mean, the head—is that of his wife.”
Her body hadn’t yet been found.
Nathalie cringed. “There’s no preparing him for this.”
Dr. Nicot rested the pane of glass against the wall and put on a pair of gloves. “Let’s do this in the Autopsy room. I don’t want the poor man to see a disembodied head, and I certainly don’t trust Olivier to tend to them alone. I can arrange the sheets in a way that will look … less jarring, at least.”
He asked if they needed him for anything else. Christophe said no, gingerly passing him the woman’s head. Dr. Nicot wrapped it with a cloth he took from the drawer and followed M. Soucy out.
The door had barely shut when Nathalie spoke. “Did I say anything?”
“Not this time. What did you see?”
She relayed the details, then hesitated a beat. “Something was different this time. Last time as well.”
“About the scene?”
“About how I witnessed it. In reverse. It wasn’t continuous. The vision … skipped.”
Christophe collected the glass as he crossed the room. “Does that concern you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, trailing him. “It could just be that I’m mostly well but not entirely, not yet.”
She knew it might be more than that.
Christophe paused in the hall. “Your demeanor was different this time.” He bit his lip, his imperfect tooth showing. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but … your face contorted as if you were in pain.”
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br /> Her eyes widened. “It did?” This had never happened, not to her knowledge. Her face was “ghostly and impassive” during a vision, according to Simone. Now her face was almost certainly red, as a result of his comment.
He swallowed. “Discomfort is perhaps a better word.”
“I wasn’t in any pain,” she added, suddenly sorry she brought it up. Why did she tell him, anyway? She could write to Dr. Delacroix about this sort of thing.
Christophe studied her for a moment, his own countenance unreadable, before he resumed walking. “Good.”
She watched his gait, how well his trousers were cut, the tidiness of his hair. Even when walking behind him, she could find something to admire. “I don’t think I mentioned this before, but I ended my courtship with Jules while you were away.”
“Did you?” he called over his shoulder.
Nathalie frowned at his apathy. He didn’t even care to face her with such news? How was she to read him if he didn’t turn around? Maybe he thought it inappropriate.
“How could I choose otherwise, after what he did?”
“Understandable.”
Something about the way he said it, that one word, was awkward. He didn’t want to talk about this, she could tell.
Perhaps he was worried it would lead to questions about his own ill-fated courtship.
They passed M. Soucy, an official in a suit, and a slender man in the hall who was stupefied and distraught, the look of someone unable to believe in his own reality. A look Nathalie had seen so many times before at the morgue.
Christophe handed M. Soucy the glass pane. When the door opened to Autopsy, she caught a glimpse of this M. Olivier, source of Dr. Nicot’s frustration (the shouting phase had ended, Christophe noted). The young man was around Christophe’s age. Tall with a flat nose, he looked more like a soldier than someone who would perform autopsies. His hair was so blond, it was nearly white.
She knew him from somewhere.
But where?
Sensational Page 25
