“This I don’t understand.”
“Be careful.”
THE COMEDY CELLAR,
GREENWICH VILLAGE, NEW YORK CITY, JANUARY 2015
“Sidra Ghioto?” Two police officers approach the table. The shorter of the two, Officer David Palatnek, holds a folded sketchbook.
“Have you been following me?” Sidra asks. “I don’t need a permit, I’m not filming.”
“Is there a problem, officers?” Jerry asks.
“Excuse us, please. We need to speak to Ms. Ghioto, alone,” says the shorter of the two.
“Davy, he your ride-along? He says nothing?”
“Yeah, Jer. He’s my junior. Neil Franks, Jerry McConnell. Franks here doesn’t do well with second-guessing.”
Jerry stands and faces the taller, broader officer. “I’m the co-owner of this club. Davy’s father was an old business partner.” He turns to Office Palatnek. “You couldn’t just call me? Is there something I need to kn—”
“Sir.” That’s all the taller officer had to say. Hand on billy club, steely gaze. Jerry sits. The officer turns to Sidra. “Come with us, please. You can leave your equipment.”
“I’m leaving nothing,” she says in disgust. “I didn’t do anything.” They wait patiently as she hurriedly gathers her instruments and leads the charge outside.
“This way,” Officer Palatnek says.
They walk toward the police car.
“What’s going on?” Sidra asks.
“Thank you in advance for your cooperation,” Officer Palatnek says. Sidra immediately assumes he struggles with a Napoleon complex based on his exaggerated authoritarian voice, but she will not speak further until questioned. “For positive identification, are you Sidra Ghioto?” he asks.
“I am. What’s good?”
He flashes a photo. “Do you know this man?”
Sidra’s eyes widen, and she begins to panic. “I do.”
“Who is he, ma’am?” Neil asks.
“You know who he is, or you wouldn’t be questioning me,” Sidra responds. “Officer, is something wrong?”
“Procedure, ma’am,” Officer Palatnek answers. “Do you know the man in this photo?”
“What hap—officer, please answer me!”
Officer Palatnek turns to Neil. “I’ll take it from here.” He turns back to Sidra. “Ma’am, who—”
“He’s my boyfriend. What’s—”
“He’s alive, Ms. Ghioto.” They watch for her reaction. Her knees buckle and she nearly falls but she keeps her footing. “He’s alive, and he’s been transported here, to Kingway.”
“He’s in the hospital? How—”
“He’ll survive.”
Officer Palatnek removes the sketchbook from under his arm and flips a page. “He was with another,” he says as he turns the sketch.
“What do you mean, another?”
“Do you know her?”
Sidra is taken by the image and cannot hide what is at least a glint of recognition. She maintains discretion, straining her face as if she’s trying to remember, and notices the officers’ dubious glances.
“I don’t understand. Where’s the mouth?”
“This is how we found her. Partially buried under the sand,” the shorter officer, the artist, replies.
“Why a sketch?” Sidra asks. “I mean, why not a photo? I can’t ID her from a drawing.”
The officers look at one another. The shorter one nods, permitting the other to answer. “She would not photograph,” the taller officer says. “Three different cameras, and for whatever reason her image would not capture.”
“I’m a photographer; that’s not possib—”
“Do you know her?” he asks.
“
I need to see my boyfriend.”
“Do you know her?” he repeats.
Sidra’s anger wells. She bites her lower lip to stop herself from screaming.
“Do you—”
She looks again at the sketch, and shakes her head. “No.”
They will bring her in to the precinct for further questioning. On the drive over, Sidra is asked by the short officer to do something she never could have anticipated:
“Keep quiet.”
SOMERS TOWN, LONDON, WINTER 1811
A Godwin family picnic. The yard behind the nearby library. Sitting around a large wooden bench, shaded by trees.
William is standing, holding a glass for a toast. Mary sits on the table’s opposite end with her extended family. While the others are celebratory, she is downtrodden.
“. . . to our children together, my dear Jane and William the younger . . . to Fanny and, of course, my beloved Mary . . . thank you, all of you, for being with Mary Jane and me on this special day. Ten years . . . passed as a will-o’-the-wisp.”
“May I say something?” Mary Jane asks.
“Certainly.”
Mary Jane Godwin stands and lifts a glass. She is a strong woman in appearance and femininity; her presence is unshakeable. The younger Mary turns away; Jane elbows William to look. “Everyone,” Mary Jane begins, “this toast is to our family. To Jane and William—”
“The illegitimate children . . .” Mary mumbles.
Mary Jane pretends not to hear, and continues. “Fanny, you are a fine young woman . . . Mary . . . Mary, I can only hope as time goes on you will understand how much I love you and what I have done for you—” Mary rolls her eyes. “—how I consider you one of my own, and—”
“No!” Mary, in the midst of a fit. “You are not my real mother!” She stands. “I’ve had enough of this.”
“Mary,” says Mary Jane, maintaining her calm in as much as possible, “today is a happy day. I acknowledge I am not your birth mother, and . . .” She looks to the others. “No. I tell you what. Patronizing you is not fair to them. Mary? Let us be open today. Today of all days we should be open and celebratory, and maybe we can finally get on with the business of being a family.”
William is nervous. “Mary Jane—”
“No, William, it’s okay and, I think, long overdue. If I do not patronize dear Mary then perhaps we can heal together. Mary, we have little in common. I have no interest in philosophy or art of any sort—it’s all an utter waste of time as far as I’m concerned—and I know we have our share, but it is our tenth anniversary together—”
“I reject that on principle. You hold your tongue for once and act like an innocent—”
“Mary!” William approaches, incensed. “I will not have you speaking to your stepmother this way. Apologize, now.”
“No!”
“Mary—”
“NO! She is nothing like my real mother. Father, you bury yourself in your study, and sometimes I think you must be dead not to see what goes on under your own nose. Mrs. Godwin is a horrible conservative and a philistine. She took you away from me, and took away from you what you had given to me—”
“She did nothing of the sort.”
“You didn’t object when she condemned philosophy, the life’s work of my father and real mother?” William looks away, embarrassed. “This is just like you now!” Mary shouts. “You stay in your study all day long, you fret that the publishing company you share is in horrible arrears and the bookstore makes no money as you are never there . . . you are no longer the William Godwin who has made such a difference.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Then you are blind. You have lost your voice, and you are blind!” She turns to a tree and slowly sobs.
William approaches. He stops behind her and gently places his hand on her shoulder. “But this is ten years for Mary Jane and me.”
“I’m sorry.” Mary turns, her eyes flooded with tears. “I’m so sorry.” She struggles, between sniffs and gulps of emotion. “You have a right to be happy, as do I. Father, I want to leave. I need to make preparations to leave. I love you, but this is intolerable. I hope to settle down and make you proud, really I do. I hope to meet a man you will a
dore, but this . . . I can do this no longer. Dearest Father, if you love me, I implore you. Please, set me free.”
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, OXFORD,
OXFORD, ENGLAND, 1811
Barely sixty miles away . . .
As he awaits his inquest, “the honor of” his inquest, as he earlier blurted to a professor who facetiously wished him well, an eighteen-year-old boy stares at the blank walls of his living quarters. There is still an hour to go before the tribunal, a gathering that will most likely favor him and extend the excuse that the boy is no longer fit to remain at University College in Oxford.
He feels like a prisoner—he has for a while—and he cannot wait to conclude this charade.
My name is Percy Bysshe Shelley crosses his mind, as if reminding himself and the world. I am the first child—the first legitimate child—of Sir Timothy Shelley, a Whig member of Parliament, and Elizabeth Pilford, Father’s wife and a Sussex landowner. My family would grow over the years to total seven offspring: five sisters and two brothers, myself included. The Shelleys do not want for money; we are quite wealthy, and I stand first among my siblings to receive a large inheritance from my grandfather upon his passing. I was educated at home early, by the Reverend Evan Edwards of Warnham, and excelled academically. And now this, this culmination of waste as if I were a man of common thought and temperament . . . a Shelley should never mire in such trivia.
As he stares at the walls, he recalls, with less than fondness, his very first such inquest during his Eton College admission five years earlier. Not a college proper, the Berkshire boarding school with an excellent pedigree and impossible standards nonetheless fueled the boy early.
He entered when he was only thirteen, and that’s where his troubles began.
Now, as he waits, the memories of Eton come to the fore . . .
~~~
1806.
“Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, sir,” said the precocious Percy in his soft, soprano-like tone.
“And in what year were you born, sir?” asked the amused headmaster, a towering, intimidating fellow who tested the mettle of prospective students. “And . . . what would be your primary goal should we accept you in this sacred institution?”
“Which question would you prefer I answer first, sir?” Percy responded.
“In what year were you born, sir?”
“In 1792. August 4, sir. That would make me . . . about thirteen. Sir.”
“And?”
“Goals, sir. To be the best I could be.”
“The best you could . . . hmm. Do you know who founded this college, young sir?”
“King Henry the Sixth, in 1440. Sir.”
“Very good, sir. And if King Henry the Sixth asked you the same question as did I, would you give him the same response?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not? Why would you respond as such to me and elsewise to the King?”
“Because the King had it in his power to execute me . . . sir. While you could only flog me. If you believe I deserve it, but I promise you, I am quite well behaved and studied.”
Though amused, the headmaster maintains his stern countenance. “And if I had the power to execute you, sir . . . what answer would you give me then?”
Percy considered the question before answering. “Sir,” he said, “I would say I did nothing to deserve anything of the sort.”
“That’s all?”
“No, sir.”
“No?”
“I would probably run, sir.”
~~~
Percy turns to his desk clock. “Forty-five minutes left. Christ,” he mumbles. “My jailers dragging the inevitable to weaken my acuity.” He sips a cup of hot water. “It will never happen.”
He lies on his bed and continues to wait.
~~~
1806.
A crowd formed around him. As Eton’s newest student, Percy was well aware of the pressures to fit in—he’d been warned by others. But damn if he was going to slave to anybody. If he sent that message, he felt, especially at this stage, he’d never have a chance.
“No,” he said. His voice cracked and was, still, high-pitched; what had introduced itself as an awkward puberty was just beginning its favors.
“No what?” mimicked his tormentor in Percy’s voice. He was an older boy and was surrounded by three others. They all laughed as they awaited the newcomer’s next words.
“Let me go,” Percy pleaded.
“Let you go?” The bullies laughed harder. “Let you go?” the leader repeated in disbelief. “I haven’t touched you. How could I let you go?”
“Let you go from what?” added another.
“Let me go . . .” mocked the third. He sniffed and wiped his eyes with his arms, pretending to cry. “Let me go . . .”
“I won’t hurt you,” said the ringleader. “Swear to God—”
“There is no God.”
Several other present, outside of the gang of bullies, were legitimately shocked.
“What did you say?” the leader asked.
Percy looked at the others. Now he had no allies. None at all. Those who a moment ago appeared to be concerned for him were now backing off.
“There is . . . no . . . God,” he said, nervously.
The leader, so empowered in part due to a natural spontaneity, responded, “Then if you don’t believe in God, you will have no problem making me your master and savior.”
“No.”
The leader got into Shelley’s face. “No? Say that again.”
“No—” His books were smacked from his arms. They spilled to the ground. Percy knelt to retrieve them and was summarily kicked in the face. Blood poured from his nose, and his eyes welled with tears.
“And so now we have real tears,” the leader said. He squatted to the ground, this time closer to Percy’s face. “You will be my servant,” he said. “This is God’s law. You don’t read your Bible, do you?” Percy didn’t answer. “Have you ever? Have your parents?” Percy refrained from the temptation to run; besides, he was outnumbered and quite terrified. He retrieved his books and stood. His tormentor followed. “This is from our Bible, Matthew 8:26. ‘Why are you afraid, you men of little faith?’ Then He got up and rebuked the winds and the sea, and it became perfectly calm. Why don’t you repeat that for me?”
“I’m sorry . . . please, I’m late for class.”
“How do you expect to be my loyal servant if you don’t allow me to rebuke the winds and the sea?”
And Percy got it. The student who was trapping him, who was bullying him and being cheered on by the others, was playing God. He realized there was no way to win. He turned to go, but before he could walk away, the quiet fourth of the group extended his foot and tripped him.
Percy again fell, the books spilled from his arms, his face was newly cut.
“You there!” The headmaster.
The bullies ran before he arrived. They watched as Percy was helped to his feet.
“Tomorrow,” the leader swore. “Noon. A new Shelley-bait. He’ll be my servant yet, I swear to you.”
NYPD 1st PRECINCT
GREENWICH VILLAGE, NEW YORK CITY
The cops told Sidra that her boyfriend was found unconscious, washed up on the Jersey Shore alongside the partially buried woman. The woman was nude save for the barest see-through shroud from neck to ankle. Sidra’s boyfriend was fully clothed sans shirt; an X had been carved into his back.
When in the precinct, Sidra took a chance and misled the officers. Under an implied oath, she professed no knowledge of her boyfriend’s carving, which was present long before they met.
~~~
Her boyfriend never did tell her when he received the scarification; he did tell her he couldn’t remember when. “It must have been a drunken night out with the boys,” he stated to her when grilled. “Maybe celebrating after we all passed a test or something.”
They were on the couch in the second storage unit when she saw the mark for the first time. “Wow
. . .” was all she could manage. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when you give me the third degree.”
Sidra was fascinated and found the scar alluring. “I’ll break you down soon enough, watch.” And she kissed him, chastely, on the cheek. “Watch . . .” she said as she kissed him again. “Always watch.”
He closed his eyes after a minute as her lips brushed his. He could not abide the myriad photos on the walls, which gave him the creeps.
They were, as she jokingly said, watching. Each and every one. Their eyes were not on the camera. They were on him.
But joking or not, she was right.
Thus was Ara’s will, he supposed, and Sidra hadn’t a clue. She was just the photographer. And he was the poor son of a bitch who, unbeknownst to anyone but those who were watching—all of those average people who were in reality anything but—had a job to do.
And Sidra, disgusted, gave up. She came close . . . but it was not yet time for him to break.
JERSEY SHORE, NEW JERSEY
Her boyfriend was alive, but barely. The woman, however, was another story. Appearing to be no older than twenty, she was not wet when found on the sand and appeared to have been blinded; only the whites of her eyes were visible. Further, the victim did not possess a mouth. A birth defect was suspected.
Staining made the determination difficult at first. The other difficulty led to an impromptu free-for-all with the Jersey mayor’s office that the woman’s skin was not skin at all.
The organ in its place was fully malleable yet impenetrable, composed of a substance neither the authorities nor the doctors could identify. Entirely hairless and skin-soft, normal by appearances and touch, and yet DNA testing would be an impossibility.
There was no autopsy, as there could be no autopsy. Her shroud could likewise not be cut, and her flaming red, cascading hair could not be clipped.
The woman’s body was delivered discreetly to Dr. Michael Katz for further examination. Dr. Katz, formerly of Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn, now chief of staff at Kingway.
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 8
