Gabriel's Inferno Trilogy

by Sylvain Reynard

  “I beg your pardon, Dr. Emerson.” The sound of Julia’s voice surprised even her. It was soft but steely. She wasn’t sure where her courage had come from, but she silently thanked the gods of graduate students for coming to her aid…just in case.

  “It’s Professor Emerson,” he snapped. “Doctors are a dime a dozen. Even chiropractors and podiatrists refer to themselves as ‘doctors.’”

  Sufficiently chastened, Julia tried to zip up her broken knapsack. Unfortunately, the zipper was broken now too. She held her breath as she pulled on it, trying to coax it back to life with unspoken curses.

  “Would you stop fussing with that ridiculous abomination of a bag and sit in a chair like a human being?”

  She could see that he was beyond furious now, so she placed her ridiculous abomination on the floor and sat quietly in the uncomfortable chair. She folded her hands, just to keep from wringing them, and waited.

  “You must think you’re a comedian. I’m sure you thought this was funny.” He threw a piece of paper which landed just shy of her sneakers.

  Bending down to pick it up, she realized it was a photocopy of the terrible note she’d left for him the day Grace died.

  “I can explain. It was a mistake. I didn’t write both…”

  “I’m not interested in your excuses! I asked you to come to the last appointment, and you didn’t, did you?”

  “But you were on the telephone. The door was closed and…”

  “The door wasn’t closed!” He tossed something at her that looked like a business card. “I suppose this was meant to be funny too?”

  Julia picked up the discarded item and gasped. It was a small condolence card, the kind one would send with flowers:

  I’m so sorry for your loss.

  Please accept my sympathy.

  With love,

  -Julia Mitchell

  She glanced over and saw that he was practically spitting he was so angry. She blinked rapidly as she tried to find the words to explain herself.

  “It’s not what you think. I wanted to say that I was sorry and…”

  “Hadn’t you already done that with the note you left?”

  “But this was supposed to be for your family, who…”

  “Leave my family out of it!” He turned his body away from her and closed his eyes, removing his glasses so that he could rub his face with both hands.

  Julia had been evicted from the realm of the surprised and relocated right into the land of the astonished. No one had explained. He had completely misunderstood her card, and no one had set him straight. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she began to puzzle over what that meant.

  Oblivious to her musings, The Professor appeared to calm himself through a Herculean effort, then closed the file and dropped it contemptuously on his desk. He glared at her.

  “I see that you came here on scholarship to study Dante. I’m the only professor in this department who is currently supervising theses in that field. Since this—” he gestured between the two of them “—is not going to work, you’ll have to change your thesis topic and find another supervisor. Or transfer to another department, or better yet, another university. I’ll inform the director of your program of my decision, effective immediately. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He swiveled in his chair toward his laptop and began typing furiously.

  Julia was stunned. While she was sitting there, silently absorbing not only his tirade but also his conclusion, The Professor spoke, not even bothering to lift his eyes in her direction. “That is all, Miss Mitchell.”

  She didn’t argue with him for truly, there was no point. She dragged herself to her feet, still dazed, and picked up her offending knapsack. She cradled it to her chest, somewhat uncertainly, and slowly exited his office, looking very much like a zombie.

  As she exited the building and crossed to the other side of Bloor Street, Julia realized that she’d chosen the wrong day to leave home without a jacket. The temperature had dropped, and the heavens had opened. Her thin, long-sleeved T-shirt was soaked only five steps outside of the department. She hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, so she faced the prospect of walking three long city-blocks in wind and cold and rain to get to her apartment.

  Oh, gods of bad karma and thunderstorms, have mercy upon me.

  As she walked, Julia took some comfort in the realization that her ridiculous abomination of a knapsack was currently serving the very proper purpose of covering her wet and possibly see-through T-shirt and cotton bra. Take that, Professor Emerson.

  As she walked, she contemplated what had just happened in his office. She had prepared herself by packing two suitcases the night before, just in case. But she had sincerely believed that he would remember. She had believed that he would be kind to her. But he wasn’t.

  He hadn’t allowed her to explain the colossal fuck-uppery that was the note. He had misunderstood her flowers and card. And he’d effectively dismissed her from the program. It was all over. Now she would have to return to Tom’s little house in Selinsgrove in disgrace…and he would discover that she had returned and laugh at her. They would laugh at her together. Stupid Julia. Thought she’d leave Selinsgrove and try to make something of herself. Thought she could go to graduate school and become a professor…Who was she kidding? It was all over now, at least for this academic year.

  Julia looked down at the destroyed and now soaked knapsack as if it were an infant and hugged it tightly to her chest. After her horrid display of gracelessness and ineptitude, she didn’t even have her dignity anymore. And to lose it all in front of him, after all these years, well, it really was too much to bear.

  She thought of the lone tampon underneath his desk and knew that when he leaned down to pick up his briefcase at five o’clock her humiliation would be complete. At least she wouldn’t be there to witness his shocked and disgusted reaction. She envisioned him having a cow upon the discovery, literally—lying down on the beautiful Persian rug that graced his office and painfully and loudly giving birth to a calf.

  About two blocks from her apartment, Julia’s long, brown hair was plastered to her head in stringy sheets. Her sneakers squished-squashed with every step. Rain poured off of her as if she were beneath a downspout. Cars and buses whooshed by, and she didn’t even bother trying to get out of the way as tidal waves of dirty water crashed over her from the busy street. Like life’s disappointments, she simply accepted it.

  At that moment another car approached, this one slowing down appropriately so that she wouldn’t be soaked by its splash. It was a new-looking, black Jaguar.

  The Jaguar slowed down even more and came to a stop. As Julia walked by, she saw the passenger door open and a masculine voice called out, “Get in.”

  She hesitated; surely the driver wasn’t calling to her. She looked around, but she was the only one foolish enough to be walking in a torrential downpour. Curious, she took a step closer.

  She knew better than to get into a car with a stranger, even in a Canadian city. But as she looked into the driver’s seat and saw two piercing blue eyes stare back at her, she walked slowly toward him.

  “You’ll catch pneumonia and die. Get in. I’ll drive you home.” His voice was softer now, the fire gone. This was almost the voice that she remembered.

  So for the sake of memory and for no other reason, she climbed into the passenger’s seat and pulled the door closed, silently apologizing to the gods of Jaguars for fouling their pristine black leather interior and immaculate car mats.

  She paused as the strains of Chopin’s Nocturne 9, Op. No. 2 filled her ears, and she smiled to herself. She had always liked that tune.

  She turned to face the driver. “Thank you very much, Professor Emerson.”

  Chapter 4

  Professor Emerson had taken a wrong turn. His life, perhaps, could be described as a series of wrong turns, but this one was entirely accidental. He’d been reading on his iPhone—an angry e-mail from his brother—while he was drivi
ng his Jaguar through a thunderstorm in the middle of rush hour in downtown Toronto. Consequently, he turned left rather than right onto Bloor Street from Queen’s Park. This meant that he was headed in the opposite direction of his apartment building.

  There was no possibility of a U-turn on Bloor during rush hour, and there was so much traffic he had a difficult time pulling over so that he could make a right and turn around. This was how he came upon a very wet and pathetic-looking Miss Mitchell, walking dejectedly down the street as if she were a homeless person, and how in a fit of guilt he came to invite her into his car, which was his pride and joy.

  “I’m sorry I’m ruining your upholstery,” she offered hesitantly.

  Professor Emerson’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I have someone who cleans it when it’s soiled.”

  Julia bowed her head, for his response hurt. Implicitly, he had compared her to dirt, but of course, that’s what he thought she was now. Dirt beneath his feet.

  “Where do you live?” he asked, seeking to engage her in polite and safe conversation for the duration of what he hoped would be a short time together.

  “On Madison. It’s just up there on the right.” She pointed some distance in front of them.

  “I know where Madison is,” he snapped.

  Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Julia cringed toward the passenger window. She slowly turned her head to look outside and drew her lower lip roughly between her teeth.

  Professor Emerson cursed under his breath. Even beneath the tangle of wet, dark hair she was pretty—a brown-eyed angel in jeans and sneakers. His mind halted at the inward sound of his description. The term brown-eyed angel seemed oddly familiar, but since he couldn’t think of the source for that reference he put the thought aside.

  “What number on Madison?” He softened his voice, so much so that Julia could barely hear him.

  “Forty-five.”

  He nodded and shortly pulled the car in front of the three-story, red brick house that had been converted into apartments.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and in a flash she dove for the door handle to make her escape.

  “Wait,” he commanded, reaching into the backseat to retrieve a large, black umbrella.

  She waited and was stunned to see The Professor walk around the car to open the door for her, wait with an open umbrella while she and her abomination exited the Jaguar, and march her up the sidewalk and the front steps of her building.

  “Thank you,” she said again as she pulled on her book bag zipper, trying to open it so she could find her keys.

  The Professor tried to hide his distaste at the sight of the abomination, but said nothing. He watched as she struggled with the zipper, then watched her face as she grew very red and upset over the fact that the zipper wouldn’t open. He remembered her expression as she knelt on his Persian rug, and it occurred to him that this current trouble was probably his fault.

  Without saying a word, he grabbed the book bag out of her hands and shoved the now closed umbrella at her. He ripped open the zipper and held the bag out, inviting her to stick her hand inside to retrieve her keys.

  She found the keys, but she was nervous, so she dropped them. When she picked them up her hands were shaking so badly she had troubling locating the correct key on her key ring.

  Having lost all patience, The Professor snatched the key ring away from her and began trying keys in the lock. When he’d successfully opened the door, he allowed her to enter before returning her keys.

  She took the repellant book bag from him and murmured her thanks.

  “I’ll walk you to your apartment,” he announced, following her through the hallway. “A homeless person once accosted me in the lobby of my building. One can’t be too careful.”

  Julia silently prayed to the gods of studio apartments, begging them to help her locate her apartment key swiftly. They answered her prayer. As she was about to slip behind the door and close it firmly but not unkindly in his face, she stopped. Then, as if she’d known him for years, she smiled up at him and politely asked if he would like a cup of tea.

  Despite being surprised by her invitation, Professor Emerson found himself standing in her apartment before he had the opportunity to consider whether it was a good idea. As he looked around the small and squalid space, he quickly concluded that it wasn’t.

  “May I take your coat, Professor?” Julia’s cheerful little voice distracted him.

  “Where would you put it?” he sniffed, noticing primly that she did not seem to have a closet or a hall tree near the door.

  Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she ducked her head.

  The Professor watched her chew her lip nervously and instantly regretted his rudeness.

  “Forgive me,” he said, handing her his Burberry trench coat of which he was inordinately proud. “And thank you.”

  Julia hung his coat up carefully on a hook that was attached to the back of her door and hastily placed her knapsack on the hardwood. “Come in and be comfortable. I’ll make tea.”

  Professor Emerson walked to one of only two chairs in the apartment and sat down, trying for her sake to hide his distaste. The apartment was smaller than his guest bathroom and included a small bed, which was pushed up against a wall, a card table and two chairs, a small Ikea bookshelf, and a chest of drawers. There was a small closet and a bathroom, but no kitchen.

  His eyes roamed around the room, looking for evidence of any kind of culinary activity until they finally settled on a microwave and a hot plate that were perched somewhat precariously on top of a dresser. A small refrigerator sat on the floor nearby.

  “I have an electric kettle,” Julia said brightly, as if she was announcing the fact that she had a diamond from Tiffany’s.

  He noticed the water that was continuing to stream off her, then he began to notice the clothes that were under the water, and then he began to notice what was under her clothes, because it was cold…and he hastily and somewhat huskily suggested that she forego making tea in order to dry herself.

  Once again her head tipped down, and she flushed before ducking into the bathroom and grabbing a towel. She emerged a few seconds later with a purple towel wrapped around her upper body over her wet clothes and a second towel in her hand. She moved as if she was going to crawl across the floor to clean up the trail of water she’d scattered from the door to the center of the room, but The Professor stood up and stopped her.

  “Allow me,” he said. “You should change into some dry clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

  “And die,” she added, more to herself than to him as she disappeared into her closet, trying not to trip over two large suitcases.

  The Professor wondered briefly why she hadn’t unpacked yet but dismissed the answer as unimportant.

  He frowned as he cleaned the water from the worn and scratched hardwood. When he’d finished, he looked at the walls and noticed that they had probably been white once, but were now a dingy cream color and were blistered and peeling. He inspected the ceiling and found several large water stains and what he thought might be the beginning of mold in one of the corners. He shuddered, wondering why on earth a nice girl like Miss Mitchell would live in such a terrible place. Although he had to admit that the apartment was very clean and quite tidy. Unusually so.

  “How much is your rent?” he asked, wincing slightly as he accordioned his six foot two frame in order to perch once again on the vile thing that masqueraded as a folding chair.

  “Eight hundred a month, utilities included,” she called to him just before she entered the bathroom.

  Professor Emerson thought with some regret of the Armani trousers he had disposed of after the flight back from Pennsylvania. He couldn’t bear the notion of wearing something that had been soaked in urine, even if it had been cleaned, so he’d just thrown them out. But the money Paulina had spent on those trousers would have paid Miss Mitchell’s rent for an entire month. And then some.

  Looking around
the small studio, it was both painfully and pathetically clear that she had tried to make it into a home, such as it was. A large print of Henry Holiday’s painting, Dante meets Beatrice at Ponte Santa Trinita, hung to the side of her bed. The Professor imagined her reclining on her pillow, her long, shiny hair cascading around her face, gazing over at Dante before she fell asleep. He dutifully put that thought aside and reflected on how strange it was that they both owned that painting. He peered at it and noticed with surprise that Julia bore a remarkable resemblance to Beatrice—a resemblance that had previously gone unnoticed. The thought twisted in his mind like a corkscrew, but he refused to dwell on it.

  He noticed other smaller pictures of various Italian scenes on the peeling walls of the apartment: a drawing of the Duomo in Florence, a sketch of St. Mark’s in Venice, a black and white photograph of the dome of St. Peter’s in Rome. He saw a row of potted herbs gracing the window sill along with a single cutting from a philodendron that she was apparently trying to nurse into a full grown plant. He observed that the curtains were pretty—a sheer lilac that matched the bedspread and its cushions. And her bookshelf boasted many volumes in both English and Italian. The Professor scanned the titles quickly and was but mildly impressed with her amateurish collection. But in short, the studio was old, tiny, in poor repair, and kitchen-less, and Professor Emerson would not have permitted his dog to live in a place like this, had he had one.

  Julia reappeared in what looked like an exercise uniform—a black hoodie and yoga pants. She’d knotted and twisted her lovely hair and fastened it near the top of her head with a clip of some sort. Even in such casual garb he noticed that she was very attractive—extremely attractive and dare he say it, sylphlike.

  “I have English Breakfast or Lady Grey,” she spoke over her shoulder, descending to her hands and knees in order to snake the plug from the electric kettle back to the outlet that was underneath the dresser.

  The Professor regarded her as she kneeled, just as she had in his office, and silently shook his head. She was without arrogance or selfish pride, which he knew was a good thing, but it pained him to see her constantly on her knees, although he couldn’t exactly say why.