Unwritten

by Charles Martin

  She said, “You got time for one more place?”

  We had at least an hour of daylight left. “Lady, I’m just the driver.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  We backed the Range Rover out of the parking lot across from the bait shack and drove across the cobbles through town. We intersected the river and turned onto the two-lane road that paralleled it. The countryside rolled by. Hillsides and old homes and even older towns passed on either side. The Loire River lay just below us on the left. A sign read CHTEAU D’USSÉ with an arrow pointing right.

  In the distance, a large castle sat on a hill. Spirals and walls. It said “fairy tale” without saying it.

  The road neared; the Château d’Ussé sat enormous and unavoidable in the distance. She pointed and I turned, which placed the château directly in front of us a mile away. Halfway there, she pointed again and I pulled into a parking lot made for viewing the château. A young couple stood on the picnic table, the château behind them, a friend with a camera telling them to do something in French that I took to mean “Smile.” I put the Range Rover in park and we sat quietly, staring. I kept thinking I’d seen this château before in a picture but I couldn’t place it. Unlike the rest of the day where the story, or history, rolled off her tongue long before we arrived and sometimes after we left, now there was only silence. Moments passed. When she did speak, her voice was a whisper. Cracking. She tried to clear her throat. “Many great writers have come out of France: Rabelais—he wrote novels in the sixteenth century; Alexandre Dumas, who wrote The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers, The Man in the Iron Mask, and The Nutcracker; Honoré de Balzac; Pierre du Ronsard; Gustave Flaubert, who wrote Madame Bovary; Victor Hugo, who wrote Les Misérables; but the greatest French writer of all time…” She eyed the castle. “Lived right there. Château d’Ussé was the one-time home of a guy named Charles Perrault. He lived in that tower around 1640. The time of Louis the Fourteenth.” She paused. “He lived here a year. Experts say the time here influenced his life’s work, one piece of which was called La Belle Au Bois Dormant.”

  She glanced at me—I found her disguise less distracting when I could see her eyes—and translated. “Sleeping Beauty.” The picture in my mind came into focus. The château looked like the Disney castle. The couple hopped off the picnic table and drove away. She exited the car, walked to the table, and sat facing the château. She patted the table next to her. “When I was eight, my dad brought me here. This parking lot. I was just starting to pick up on the fact that I wasn’t too… desirable.” She palmed away a tear. Blew her nose. “He put me on this table and read the story. At least the first half of it. I memorized it. Knew every word by heart.” She tried to laugh. “Strange how one writer, long since dead, could bring such hope to an ugly duckling like me.”

  I remembered our exchange over Pascal and about dead writers and their words. I had thought then there was more to it. I was right. I’d found it. The words pierced me.

  “He used to brush the hair out of my eyes and say, ‘Ma cherie, your prince will find you.’ Then he’d smile and say, ‘Le seul vrai langage au monde est un baiser.’ ” A long pause. “It means ‘The only true language in the world is a kiss.’ ” The tears ran alongside her nose, off her chin, and onto the stone bench below. “I thought he was right so I let a lot of men kiss me, but—” She shook her head. A long glance at the château—and into the years behind it. “I’ve been asleep my whole life.”

  She was quiet on the drive back. She napped much of the way. The GPS served as my guide. It was nearly dark when we pulled into the drive. She woke and said, “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me around eight and we’ll make some dinner.”

  “Sure.”

  She made her way upstairs and I glanced at the lights of Langeais below. Then my watch. I didn’t have much time.

  The proprietor of the bookstore was about to flip his OUVERT sign to FERMÉ when I ran to his door. He smiled and opened it. I stepped in, and waved to the man. He said, “Bonjour, monsieur.”

  “Bonjour,” I said followed by, “Hello.”

  “You finish The Ice Queen?” he asked in French-thick English.

  “Not yet, I’m about halfway.”

  “Good?”

  I didn’t know how to answer without offending. “Don’t know yet. I’ll let you know when I finish.”

  He smiled. “Do you need help?”

  “Yes, do you have an older book? Maybe fifteen years old. Pirate Pete and the Misfits?” He nodded knowingly, turned, and led me to a shelf. There were several editions. Hardcover. Trade paper. Spanish, French, German, and English editions. Some more used than others. He pointed at two, one English, one French, touching them gently. “These two are first editions. Very valuable to the right person.”

  I bought them both.

  He asked, “Would you like them gift wrapped?”

  “Please.”

  He spoke while he wrapped and looked at me over his reading glasses. “You have read this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have read all five in this series?”

  I nodded.

  He ran his finger across the title. “My wife and I, we have four boys. We have read them all many times.” He sucked between his teeth. “Books like this—” He shook his head. “They come around maybe once in a generation.”

  “A shame,” I said.

  “Yes, very big shame.” He handed me the package, tapping the books inside.

  I paid, thanked him, and walked back out into the street, where the discomfort in my side was growing.

  I built and lit a fire and finished The Ice Queen. It was authorial malpractice. If I wasn’t against book burning, I’d burn it. Problem is, I think we’re better off knowing the truth of what someone thinks. Burning the book doesn’t kill the truth or the lie that resides between the covers. Maybe I first learned that from Fahrenheit 451.

  I climbed the stairs and woke her at eight. She was tired, had a tough time waking up, and leaned on me coming down the stairs—even holding my arm. An unusual dependence. We heated leftovers and ate in the same cave where we’d eaten the night before. I fed and stoked the fire and we grew sleepy in its warmth. We were tired so conversation was thin. After dessert, we turned our chairs to face the fire and soaked. Sleep pulled at me. She spoke quietly. The words rolled off her tongue. “Belle journée.”

  “It sounds pretty. What’s it mean?”

  The firelight danced on her face. “ ‘Beautiful day.’ ”

  “Yes. It was.” I stood, began gathering plates. She looked tired. “I’ve got the dishes.”

  She looked surprised. “Two nights in a row?” She wiggled her nose. “If I didn’t know better—”

  I cut her off. “It comes from living alone. If I don’t do them, they don’t get done. Really, I got them. See you in the morning. Thanks again for today. I really enjoyed it.” She nodded, stared at me a second, then walked upstairs.

  An hour later, I’d finished cleaning the kitchen. I was scrubbing the countertop. I turned and found her watching me. Wet hair. Woman’s pajamas that look like a man’s. The smell of lavender. “How long you been there?”

  She leaned against the door frame. “Can I show you something?”

  She took me by the hand and led me up the steps. When she reached the third floor, she turned, opened the hidden pocket door, and led me up the spiral staircase to the fourth floor, where she clicked on the lights. The ceiling was gabled, huge, with exposed beams. I could only stand up straight in the center. Worn wooden floors, a twin bed along one wall below a window, bathroom at the far end. I studied the room. Life-size, hand-painted murals covered the walls from floor to apex. Scenes of a wooded land, a king’s chamber, a castle ballroom. A prince on a white horse. A sleeping princess. Characters from fairy tales covered every square inch of every wall. A near identical rendition of Château d’Ussé covered the entire wall above the bed.

  The paint was faded and cracking. She said, “Given m
y physical appearance, and the fact that I had no friends to speak of, my father created a world where I’d be safe and read me fairy tales, inserting my name into the story. He painted these—painting me into the stories.” She pointed at one picture. Maybe Cinderella at the ball. “That’s me. The countess had arthritis so she never left the first floor. She never knew about this.” A rack of dresses lined one wall. “Dad didn’t make much but what he did, he spent on me. He bought some fabric, and that sewing machine, and we made these.” She ran her fingers through each. An old sewing machine sat in a corner. Rolls of thread next to it. “He bought books and taught himself and me how to sew.” She laughed. “Pretty crude to start but he improved.” A makeup stand covered in piles of makeup, wigs, a pair of clear plastic slippers, and every nature of things needed to transform one person into another. “We didn’t have the money to fix my eye so I hid up here where it was safe. Where the laughter didn’t follow and couldn’t find me.” She shook her head. “And ever since, every role, every character, every rehearsed line—I was hiding where I thought it was safe.” A tear welled. She twirled. Her hands holding the edges of a dress she wasn’t wearing. “Up here—this is where I’m most me. Whoever she is, I am her, here.”

  She walked to a window and looked out across Langeais. Lost in a memory, she leaned her head against the window frame. “At nights, after rehearsals, and everyone had gone home, I’d walk out on that stage—no spotlight. Just me, my echo, and the hot tamale glow from the single exit sign. All the world was Technicolor, panoramic, and 3-D. And there, somewhere over that Judy Garland rainbow in a yellow brick and emerald world, I would open up and pour out. Share it with worn seat backs, roped balconies, and empty velvet cushions. When the pleasure was simple and complete… In the offering. Then—” Katie’s complexion changed. The memory soured. “They used to say I was ‘the One.’ ” A forced chuckle. “Now, I’m just one of many. A statistic. Once a meteor shot and bright, shining star, I’m the poster child for the crash and burn.” Tears streaked her face. She looked at me. “The measuring stick for the fallen.”

  I studied the room, looked for something—anything—to say and found nothing.

  She ran her fingers along the edge of a painting. “Tell me about your parents.”

  A shrug. “Can’t.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t.” She didn’t ask me why so I answered her anyway. “My record, or at least what I’ve read about myself, says that I was born somewhere in Florida, and after two days of not nursing me, my mother left me in a deserted trailer where I picked up fleas, lice, and scabies. I was found two days later by a homeless guy jacked up on something and looking for a place to come down.”

  Her complexion changed and I was not ready to have the conversation that would soon follow so I cut her off. “So, I can’t. And won’t.” She studied me. I said, “I got you something today.”

  She looked surprised. “You did?”

  “Wait here.” I went to my room, picked up the package, and found my hands shaking and my breath shallow.

  I returned and stood, holding the package. She stared at me suspiciously. I said, “A long time ago, I found something—something valuable. For a time, I shared it.”

  “What happened to it?”

  I didn’t know how to answer so I handed her the gift. “I used to give this to people—like you.”

  “Like me?”

  A nod. “People in pain.”

  “How many people did you give it to?”

  I turned away, shook my head. “Directly, or indirectly?”

  “Both.”

  “It started with one, a girl named Jody. Then grew to tens… of millions.” Her eyes fell to the gift in her hand and her lips parted slightly.

  I stepped out and down the first few stairs, and heard her slowly tear the paper. I spoke over my shoulder. “I signed it for you.” She opened to the title page and brushed her fingers across the name, “Bella.” I held on to the railing, afraid to look behind me. “You were right about writers.”

  Her voice was a whisper. “How’s that?”

  “They die. Their words don’t.”

  I descended four flights of stairs, my knees weak. I wanted to run but didn’t know where to go so I walked outside and threw up in the bushes. Once that wave had passed, I threw up again. Empty, I wiped my face on my sleeve, shoved my hands in my pockets, and meandered through the gardens—trying not to think about the transaction occurring inside. Those thoughts took me through the pasture, then the vineyard.

  It was a long, long walk.

  After midnight, I returned to my room, and lay on my bed, my journal on my chest. My heart pounding. The window was open and the breeze rolled the curtains. Around three a.m, I turned out the light but didn’t sleep. Every now and then, the boards above me creaked, suggesting she was still awake. Still reading. Throughout the night, I heard laughter and muffled sobs. For the last hour, she hadn’t made a sound.

  Somewhere after five a.m., the stairs creaked. I turned to find her standing in the doorway, clutching the book to her chest. A tissue in her hand. Slowly, she approached the bed, walked around it, and sat on the edge. Her eyes were red and face puffy. Several moments passed before she spoke. When she finally did, she didn’t use words.

  She lay down next to me, placed her arm around my waist, and kissed me, her tears running down my cheek.

  In my previous life, I learned something. I remember seeing it painted on the faces of the kids in the hospital. It is this: All hearts have but one request. One simple, unspoken, undeniable need. One undeniable fear.

  To be known.

  You can stamp it out. Kill it. Box it up and hem it in. Numb it and close the door. Bury it and nail it shut. Encase it in stone. But eventually, the needs of the heart will tear the door off the hinges, unearth it, and crack the stone. No prison ever built could house it. Those of us who think we can are lying to ourselves. And those next to us.

  Hope never dies.

  She moved closer, her back to my chest. Moments later, she was asleep, and I was not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was nearly noon when I opened my eyes. Her face sat inches from mine and she was looking at me. My hands were folded across my chest. One of hers lay across mine. Her fingers intertwined with mine—two young vines trained by the gardener. She pulled them to her chest, and whispered, “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  She turned, pulled on my arm, and pressed her back to my chest, squeezing my arm around her. More spooning. “I can’t believe it’s you. I mean, you’re really you.”

  I chuckled. “It’s me all right.”

  She spoke over her shoulder. “There are some—mostly those who believe Elvis and Marilyn are shacked up in the Austrian Alps—who think you’re still alive. Never died.”

  “Those same people are probably starting to say the same thing about you.”

  She shrugged. “No wonder you knew so much about door number three.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  She was almost giddy. Like the revelation had put us on an even playing field. Partners in crime. “I can’t believe it’s really you.” Another squeeze. “I mean, it’s really you. Peter Wyett right here in my bed. Sleeping under my roof.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Look at me—my palms are sweating. So this is what it’s like when you meet somebody famous?”

  “Not sure I’m all that famous anymore.”

  One hand on her hip. “Whatever happened to that last book? The one the whole world was going crazy over? Your ‘lost masterpiece.’ ”

  I shook my head. “Don’t really know.”

  “You wrote it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you lose it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, can’t you just rewrite it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  “The reason
I wrote it—was taken from me. And, then or now, I couldn’t—can’t—understand why.”

  She smiled. “Guess I’m not the only one with a secret.”

  “Guess not.”

  She pressed her back against me. The smell of her hair under my nose. She smiled. “Can I tell you something? An honest confession.”

  “Better save that for Steady.”

  “I’m serious. This is important.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you don’t mind if I’m brutally honest with you?”

  “No.”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever been to bed with a man and woke up clothed.”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Yes.” She was smiling.

  “And you don’t mind if I’m brutally honest with you?”

  “No.”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever slept with a woman.”

  A chuckle. “Seems like I remember you saying something about that.” She squeezed my arm beneath hers. “Well, there’s more to it. I mean, it gets better.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She sat up, facing me, and crossed her legs. Hands in her lap. She searched for the words. “Okay, another honest admission. I was wrong about something.” She shook her head. “You’re not compensating.”

  “What?”

  “Your truck. I told you that you owned a big hooked-up truck ’cause you were compensating. Trying to be someone you weren’t. ’Cause you didn’t make a big enough splash the first time around. But now I think you drive it ’cause you need it.”

  “Thank you.”

  A shrug. “I, on the other hand, own four Porsches for reasons we won’t go into.”

  Her self-reflection was confusing me. I sat wondering where this was going. “Okay.”

  She was all over the map. Her fingers tapped the cover. Changing direction on a dime. “Beautiful. Just… how you do it?”

  “People say the same thing about you.”

  “Yeah, but this, I couldn’t begin to—Wouldn’t know where to—What I do is acting. It’s all pretend. Totally scripted. A shield between them and me, but this—this is real. It’s perfect. Every word is—honest.” A shrug. “Listen to me. I’m all thumbs. Just like my fans, I get in the presence of somebody great and fall to pieces.” She turned, clutching my book. “Thank you. I treasure it.”