Gabriel's Inferno Trilogy

by Sylvain Reynard

  He ignored the red velvet wing chair, for if he turned to look at it, he would see her, curled up like a cat, reading a book. She’d worry her lower lip between her teeth, her adorable eyebrows scrunched in thought. Had any man ever loved, adored, worshipped a woman more?

  None but Dante, he thought. And he was seized by a sudden inspiration.

  He unlocked one of the drawers of his desk. This was the memory drawer. Maia’s picture was there, along with the scant remnants of his childhood—his grandfather’s pocket watch, some jewelry that belonged to his mother, her diary, and a few old photographs. He removed a photograph and an illustration before locking the drawer again, placing the items in his pocket. Pausing only to open a black velvet box and withdraw a ring, he headed for the door.

  The chill in the Toronto air sobered Gabriel as he walked determinedly to his office. He only hoped he would be able to find what he needed.

  The building in which the Department of Italian Studies was housed was dark. As he switched on the light in his office, he was assaulted by memories. Memories of the first time Julia visited his office and he’d been unspeakably rude. Memories when Julia stood by the door after that disastrous seminar, telling him she wasn’t happy. Telling him she didn’t want Paul. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if he could block out the visions.

  He packed his fancy leather briefcase with only the files he needed and a few books, before searching the shelves. Moments later, he found the simple textbook and breathed a sigh of relief. He penned a few words, added his bookmarks, then switched off the light and locked the door.

  All faculty in the department held keys to the departmental office, where Mrs. Jenkins’s desk and the mailboxes were located. Gabriel used the light from his iPhone to find the box he wanted. He deposited the book, stroking his fingers lovingly across the name labeling the mailbox. He noted with satisfaction that other textbooks were in other boxes, then with a heavy heart, he exited the office.

  * * *

  Paul Norris was angry. His anger was directed at the most evil man on the planet, Gabriel Emerson, who had verbally abused and seduced his friend before dumping her.

  If Paul had been a fan of Jane Austen, he would have likened Professor Emerson to Mr. Wickham. Or perhaps, to Willoughby. But he wasn’t.

  Nevertheless, it was all he could do not to pummel Emerson senseless and give him the ass whipping he’d been in desperate need of all year. Additionally, Paul felt betrayed. For God knows how long, Julia had been involved with a man she called Owen.

  Gabriel Owen Emerson.

  Perhaps she wanted Paul to figure it out. But it had never crossed his mind that Owen was, in fact, Professor Emerson. He’d cursed the man and told her secrets about him, for God’s sake. Secrets about Professor Singer. And while she was accepting his sympathy, she was sleeping with him. No wonder she’d sworn up and down that Owen hadn’t bitten her neck, that it was some other asshole.

  Paul thought of Professor Emerson doing depraved things to Julia, and her small, small hands. Julia, who was sweet and kind, with blushing pink cheeks. Julia, who never passed a homeless man on the street without giving him something. Perhaps the true pain of betrayal was the realization that sweet Miss Mitchell had shared a bed with a monster who got off on pain, who had been a plaything of Professor Singer. Perhaps Julia wanted that lifestyle. Perhaps she and Gabriel invited Ann into their bed, as well. After all, Julia had picked Soraya Harandi to be her attorney. Didn’t that mean she was familiar with Professor Pain?

  Clearly, Julia was not who he thought she was. But his suspicions morphed into something else when, on the Monday after the hearing, he ran into Christa Peterson as she exited Professor Martin’s Office.

  “Paul.” She nodded at him smugly, adjusting the expensive watch on her wrist.

  He jerked his chin in the direction of Professor Martin’s door. “Having some trouble?”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly, smiling altogether too widely. “In fact, I think the only person who’s having trouble is Emerson. You’d better start looking for a new dissertation director.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “If Emerson drops me, he’ll drop you too. If he hasn’t already.”

  “I’m dropping him.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “I’m transferring to Columbia in the fall.”

  “Isn’t that where Martin came from?”

  “Give my best to Julia, would you?” Laughing, Christa brushed past him.

  Paul jogged after her, catching her elbow with his hand. “What are you talking about? What did you do to Julia?”

  She wrenched her arm free, her eyes narrowing. “Tell her she fucked with the wrong woman.”

  Christa walked away as a stunned Paul stood, wondering what she had done.

  * * *

  Julia didn’t respond to Paul’s worried messages or emails. So on the Wednesday after the hearing, he stood on the front porch of her building, buzzing her apartment.

  She didn’t answer.

  Undeterred, Paul waited, and when a neighbor exited the building, he went inside and knocked on her door. He rapped several times until a hesitant voice called to him. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Paul.”

  He heard what sounded like the thud of Julia’s forehead against the door.

  “I wanted to check on you since you aren’t answering your phone.” He paused. “I have your mail.”

  “Paul—I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Let me see that you’re all right and I’ll go.”

  He heard the shuffling of feet. “Julia,” he called to her softly. “It’s just me.”

  A scraping sound echoed in the hallway, and the door slowly creaked open.

  “Hi,” he said, looking down into the face of a woman he did not recognize.

  She looked like a girl really, white skin against dark hair that was messily pulled up into a ponytail. Purple circles rimmed her eyes, which were bloodshot and glassy. She looked as if she hadn’t slept since the hearing.

  “Can I come in?”

  She opened the door more widely, and Paul walked into her apartment. He’d never seen it so disordered. Dishes were abandoned on every surface, her bed was unmade, and the card table was straining under the weight of papers and books. Her laptop was open as if she’d been interrupted while working on it.

  “If you came to tell me how stupid I am, I don’t think I can handle that right now.” She tried to sound defiant.

  “I was upset when I found out you’d been lying to me.” Paul shuffled her mail from one arm to the other and scratched at his sideburns. “But I’m not here to make you feel badly.” His expression softened. “I don’t like to see you hurting.”

  She looked down at her purple woolly socks and wiggled her toes. “I’m sorry for lying.”

  He cleared his throat. “Um, I brought your mail. You had some stuff in the mailbox outside, and I also brought your mail from the department.”

  Julia looked at him with a worried expression.

  He held up a hand as if to reassure her. “It’s only a couple of flyers and a textbook.”

  “Why would someone send me a textbook? I’m not teaching.”

  “The textbook reps put exam copies in the professors’ mailboxes. Sometimes they give books to the grad students too. I got one on Renaissance politics. Where should I put everything?”

  “On the table. Thanks.”

  Paul did as he was bidden while Julia busied herself by retrieving the cups and bowls from around the apartment and stacking them neatly on top of the microwave.

  “What kind of textbook?” she asked, over her shoulder. “It isn’t about Dante, is it?”

  “No. It’s Marriage in the Middle Ages: Love, Sex, and the Sacred.” Paul read the title aloud.

  She shrugged, for the title didn’t interest her.

  “Yo
u look tired.” He gazed at her sympathetically.

  “Professor Picton asked me to make a lot of changes to my thesis. I’ve been working around the clock.”

  “You need some fresh air. Why don’t you let me take you to lunch? My treat.”

  “I have so much work to do.”

  He brushed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You need to get out of here. This place is depressing. It’s like Miss Havisham’s house.”

  “Does that make you Pip?”

  Paul shook his head. “No, it makes me a nosy jerk who interferes in someone else’s life.”

  “That sounds like Pip.”

  “Is your thesis due tomorrow?”

  “No. Professor Picton gave me a week’s extension. She knew I wouldn’t be ready to turn it in April first because of—everything.” She winced.

  “It’s just lunch. We’ll take the subway and head to Queen Street and be back before you know it.”

  Julia looked up at Paul, into concerned dark eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Because I’m from Vermont. We’re friendly.” He grinned. “And because you need a friend right now.”

  Julia smiled in gratitude.

  “I never stopped caring for you,” he admitted, his eyes unexpectedly gentle.

  She pretended she didn’t hear his declaration.

  “I need a minute to get dressed.”

  They both looked at her flannel pajamas.

  Paul smirked. “Nice rubber duckies.”

  Embarrassed, she disappeared into her closet to find some clean clothes. Not having done laundry in a week, her choices were limited, but at least she had something halfway presentable for a casual meal.

  While she was in the bathroom, Paul took it upon himself to clean up her apartment, or at least, to tidy it. He knew better than to touch her thesis materials, choosing rather to straighten her bed and pick up things from the floor. When he was finished, he shelved the textbook and sat down in a folding chair to look over her mail. He quickly disposed of the flyers and junk and stacked what looked like bills into a neat pile. He noticed there weren’t any letters of a personal nature.

  “Thank God,” he muttered.

  After she dressed, she covered the circles under her eyes with concealer, and pinked up her pale cheeks with blush. When she was satisfied that she no longer looked like a youngish version of Miss Havisham, Julia joined Paul at the card table.

  He greeted her with a smile. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “I’m sure you have things you want to say. You might as well get it over with.”

  Paul frowned and gestured to the door. “We can talk over lunch.”

  “He left me,” she blurted, looking pained.

  “Don’t you think that’s a good thing?”

  “No.”

  “Jeez, Julia, the guy seduced you for kicks, then dumped you. How much abuse do you want?”

  Her head snapped up. “That’s not how it was!”

  Paul looked at her, at her sudden show of anger, and was impressed. He’d rather have her angry than sad.

  “You should probably wear a hat. It’s cold out.”

  A few minutes later they were outside, walking toward the Spadina subway station.

  “Have you seen him?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “You know who. Don’t make me say his name.”

  Paul huffed. “Wouldn’t you rather forget about him?”

  “Please.”

  He glanced over to see a pinched look on Julia’s pretty face. He stopped her gently. “I ran into him a few hours after the hearing. He was coming out of Professor Martin’s office. Since then, I’ve been trying to finish my dissertation. If Emerson dumps me, I’m screwed.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “In Hell, I hope.” Paul’s voice was cheerful. “Martin sent an email to the department saying that Emerson was on a leave of absence for the rest of the semester. You probably saw that email.”

  Julia shook her head.

  Paul looked at her closely. “I guess he didn’t say good-bye.”

  “I left a few messages for him. He finally emailed me yesterday.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me to stop contacting him and that it was over. He didn’t even call me by name—just sent me a two line email from his university account, and signed it ‘Regards, Prof. Gabriel O. Emerson.’”

  “Asshole.”

  Julia winced, but didn’t disagree. “After the hearing, he told me I wasn’t sensible of my own distress.”

  “Pretentious fucker.”

  “What?”

  “He stomps on your heart and then he has the balls to quote Hamlet? Unbelievable. And he misquoted it, the jackass.”

  She blinked in surprise. “I didn’t recognize the line. I thought it was just—him.”

  “Shakespeare was a pretentious fucker too. That’s probably why you couldn’t tell the difference. The line is from Gertrude’s speech about the death of Ophelia. Listen:

  “When down her weedy trophies and herself

  Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;

  And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:

  Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;

  As one incapable of her own distress,

  Or like a creature native and indued

  Unto that element: but long it could not be

  Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

  Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay

  To muddy death.”

  Julia’s face grew pale. “Why would he say that to me?”

  “You are nothing like her.” Paul reiterated his list of favored profane adjectives with respect to the Professor. “Was Emerson worried you’d do something—to hurt yourself?” Paul was growing progressively more agitated as his undergraduate knowledge of Shakespeare came flooding back to him.

  (The benefit of a liberal arts education.)

  Julia feigned surprise at his question. “I don’t know what he thought. He just mumbled something about me trying to commit academic suicide.”

  Paul seemed relieved. Marginally.

  “There’s something else I need to mention. I talked to Christa.”

  Julia chewed at the inside of her mouth before indicating that he should continue.

  “Christa was happy that Emerson was leaving. And she referred to you.”

  “She’s always hated me,” said Julia.

  “I don’t know what she’s up to, but I’d watch your back.”

  Julia looked off into the distance. “She can’t hurt me. I’ve already lost what mattered most.”

  Chapter 29

  Paul and Julia sat across from one another at a hip but retro café on Queen Street. They engaged in small talk before they ordered their meals, falling into an uneasy silence as Julia pondered her situation.

  “So how have you been?” Paul’s voice broke into her internal musings.

  She wouldn’t say it aloud, because she wouldn’t mention such a thing to Paul. But one of the reasons she had been so upset, apart from the loss of Gabriel, was the loss of what he represented—the attainment of her high school crush, the loss of her virginity, the discovery of what she thought had been a deep and reciprocated love…

  When she thought of the first time he made love to her, she wanted to cry. No one had ever treated her with such rapt attention and gentleness. He was so worried about hurting her and making sure that she was relaxed. He was insistent on telling her that he loved her, over and over again as he moved toward his orgasm. The first one that he would have with her, because of her…

  Gabriel staring into my very soul, moving inside me, telling me that he loved me while showing me with his body exactly that. He must have loved me. I’m just not sure when he stopped. Or rather, when he chose to love his job more than me.

  Paul cleared his throat good-naturedly, and Julia s
miled her apology.

  “Um, I’m upset and angry, but I try not to think about what happened. I’ve been working on my thesis, but it’s difficult to write about love and friendship when you’ve just lost both.” She blew a breath of air out. “Everyone at the university must think I’m a whore.”

  Paul leaned over the table. “Hey, you are not a whore. I’d punch someone’s lights out if they ever said anything like that about you.”

  She said nothing, fidgeting in her lap with an embroidered handkerchief.

  “You fell in love with the wrong person, that’s all. He took advantage of you.”

  Julie protested, but he continued.

  “The Dean’s office asked me to sign a confidentiality agreement. They’re keeping everything having to do with you and Emerson quiet. So don’t worry about what people think. No one knows anything.”

  “Christa knows,” she muttered.

  “I’m sure she had to sign the same confidentiality agreement. If she starts spreading rumors about you, you should go to the Dean.”

  “What good would that do? The gossip would follow me to Harvard.”

  “Professors aren’t supposed to take advantage of students. If you’d said no to him, he would have fucked with your career. He’s the villain.” Paul fumed. “You have a lot of good things to look forward to, like graduation and going to Harvard. And someday, when you’re ready, you’ll find someone who will treat you properly. Someone worthy of you.” He squeezed her fingers. “You’re kind and gentle. You’re funny and bright. And when you’re pissed off, you’re sexy as hell.”

  She gave him a half-smile.

  “That day you took Emerson on in the seminar room—it was a total train wreck, but I would pay money to see it again. You are the only person I’ve ever seen stand up to him, other than Christa, who is crazy, and Professor Pain, who is twisted. As much as I was afraid of what he’d do in retaliation, your spunkiness was impressive.”

  “I lost my temper. It wasn’t my finest moment.”

  “Perhaps not. But it showed me something. It showed Emerson something. You’re a bad ass. You need to let the bad ass come out every once in a while. Within reason, of course.”