“Estelle, do not touch anyone!” The nurse uttered an apology as she peeled the woman off Nathalie. The woman screamed even louder for the key; the nurse started to escort her back to her room and the woman dropped, as if her lower half had ceased to work, and twisted. A second nurse ran over to help as the woman flailed and yelled.
Nathalie didn’t mind coming here. Most of the time.
“Look at this,” Maman said, pointing to Nathalie’s elbow. The red imprint of the woman’s grip remained. “You’ll have a bruise from that.”
“I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt,” Nathalie said. Maman shook her head, and they entered the room Tante shared with three other women.
One roommate with shorn hair was snoring on her bed. The other two weren’t in the room. Aunt Brigitte, Papa’s older sister by five years, was curled up like an infant. Her brown hair was long, stringy, and streaked with gray. Her skin was full of fine lines, like cracked porcelain. She was staring at the window but not, it seemed, out of it. Her lips were moving and she was talking to herself.
They said hello, and Tante rolled onto her back. She gazed at them, face blank for a moment, before grinning. “Caroline! Nathalie! Thank you, thank you for coming to see me. Thank you.”
Tante always thanked them profusely for coming. Nathalie used to think it was amusing, but then she realized, no, it wasn’t. It was heartbreaking. Aunt Brigitte was locked in a horrible place with no human connection besides nurses, doctors, and other patients. Aside from a courtyard where patients could go for an hour a day in good weather, Tante’s world was stark, empty, and devoid of anything meaningful.
“I had a nightmare last night,” said Aunt Brigitte, her voice low, as if she didn’t want her roommate to overhear. “I was a cobra in a basket, and a nun pulled me out. I sank my fangs into her hand.”
Nathalie swallowed hard. Tante’s dreams always evoked horrifying, vivid imagery.
Aunt Brigitte grinned before continuing. “When I bit her she turned into a dove.”
Maman and Nathalie locked eyes for a second, and then Maman cleared her throat. “That’s frightful, Brigitte.”
Aunt Brigitte then ceased to talk, completely, and became as still as a statue with only her lips moving.
That happened often. Tante would go … elsewhere. Nathalie always wondered where: The past? The future? Deep into her imagination? After a few moments, she’d return to the present.
Maman broke the silence. “Nathalie works for the newspaper now.”
Aunt Brigitte didn’t answer, as if she hadn’t heard, for a few beats. Then she looked Nathalie in the eye, with a grave expression, and touched her cheek. Tante spoke in a thin voice. “Trust no one.”
Nathalie flinched.
Why would she say that?
Her mother, ever adept at moving past Tante’s unusual behavior, continued on about what a good writer Nathalie was before mentioning Papa. Maman read his latest letter to Aunt Brigitte while Nathalie pondered why “trust no one” had come to Tante’s mind.
“I miss Augustin,” said Aunt Brigitte, her voice cracking. “He’s a good brother. I wish—I wish.” Tante’s lip began to tremble and her face crumpled into tears.
As Maman hugged her, Aunt Brigitte’s tears turned into sobs. Tante buried her face in Maman’s arms like a child. She said something over and over again; Nathalie couldn’t make it out.
“What’s she saying?”
“‘I wish he could make me better,’” Maman said.
Nathalie frowned, wishing she could help Tante. Papa did have a way of making things better, or trying to, and she understood why Aunt Brigitte would cry for him.
Maman soothed Tante until she calmed down. Moments later she said she was sleepy.
Madness. Peculiar, scary, and unpredictable.
They finished their visit shortly thereafter and found a downpour waiting for them outside. Hurrying to the tram stop, they huddled together, using their respective umbrellas to form one large shield from the rain.
“Tante said something strange to me.” Nathalie leaned in closer. “Did you hear her? ‘Trust no one.’”
“Most everything Tante says is strange.”
Nathalie shook some raindrops off the umbrella. “I know, but that seemed very … specific. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.”
That was how it was with Maman. If she didn’t want to talk about something, you might as well converse with one of the gargoyles on the Notre-Dame.
Maman’s dismissive silence only served to embolden Nathalie. “You and Papa never told me,” she began. “How did Tante end up in Saint-Mathurin?”
“It’s complicated, ma bichette.” Maman looked her in the eye. “She thinks she sees things. And she tried to drown a man because of it.”
11
Nathalie lost her grip on the umbrella and almost dropped it. “Things? What—what kind of things did she see?”
Maman glanced at the others waiting at the tram stop: a bespectacled young man reading Marx, a pair of lovers enamored with one another, and a mother holding the hands of her young son and daughter, singing cheerfully in what sounded like Polish. “It happened while she lived at Madame Plouffe’s house,” she said, dropping her voice. “She disappeared one night, and they found her trying to drown a man in the Seine. Fortunately a policeman was nearby and intervened in time.”
Nathalie tried to picture that scene but couldn’t. It didn’t seem possible. Her aunt was bony and frail, and from what she could recall, always had been.
“How could Tante be strong enough to drown a man?”
“She jumped on him from behind, while he was peering over a bridge.” Maman mimicked looking over a bridge. “There was a struggle, and somehow they both ended up in the river. He didn’t know how to swim, and she tried to push his head under.”
This Nathalie could imagine, because even in the asylum, her aunt showed a fierceness. Or the remnants of it, anyway. Aunt Brigitte’s eyes flashed with intense emotion whenever she talked about her dreams.
“Aunt Brigitte was adamant,” Maman added in a quiet, somber tone. “She claimed she saw the man throw a baby into the river.”
“And?”
“They searched for three days. No baby was found in or around the Seine. Or reported missing. The man had no history of crime, either.”
Nathalie absorbed the words like cloth soaking up a blood stain. “How ghastly. The poor man!” She wondered what became of him, and if he ever looked over a bridge after that without first checking to see who was nearby. “But Aunt Brigitte, locked away forever because of one mistake, appalling as it was? After all, she didn’t kill him, just gave him a good fright…”
Her voice trailed off, replaced by the questions in her head. Did Aunt Brigitte end up at Saint-Mathurin because she tried to kill someone? Or because of the reason why, because she believed her dream to be real?
Maman watched the Polish children jumping over a puddle. “Your father thought it was best. Madame Plouffe was a delight but she—she couldn’t give Tante the care she needed. And neither could we. You understand that, right?”
Before Nathalie could answer the steam tram pulled up, splashing muddy water on her mother’s dress, purple with a gray swirling pattern. Maman leaned over to inspect the splatter and dropped her bag in a puddle. Then the tram door opened, with Maman lamenting her soiled dress and bag as she climbed on board. Nathalie sighed. She had so many more questions, yet she knew her mother wouldn’t answer any of them, not while sitting on public transportation with other people within earshot. Maman was prim when it came to discussing family matters, even when the only people who could overhear were strangers.
Nathalie closed her umbrella and followed Maman onto the tram, wishing her aunt had said more, or less, than “Trust no one.”
* * *
Over the next two days, Nathalie tried talking to her mother several times about Tante’s commitment to the asylum. Maman continually, and skillfully, changed the
subject. (Nathalie had once commented on her mother’s ability to deflect questions, to which Maman replied, “You’ve given me many opportunities to practice over the years.”) Her evasiveness only piqued Nathalie’s interest more.
“Why is it such a secret?” asked Nathalie, after her third attempt to talk about it.
“Because your father wants it to be.” Maman’s tone, normally smooth as a gemstone, had a finality about it. The conversation was over. Not just at the moment, but completely.
The words struck her like little arrows of sympathy for Aunt Brigitte. Was Tante insane, misunderstood, or both?
* * *
“I’ll bet my mother is sorry she told me,” Nathalie remarked to Simone. They were sitting on Simone’s sofa eating grapes. The woman next door sold grapes in a street cart and sold them to Simone for half price if they didn’t sell in the first few days. During her last visit, Nathalie had suggested that Simone buy extra grapes some-time just so they could stomp on them, as if they were at a winery. Simone said it would be too messy for the apartment, but that she’d gladly stomp grapes if they ever took a trip to a Bordeaux vineyard.
“She probably is,” said Simone, fishing a grape seed out of her teeth. “But you can’t put the bark back into the dog. She’ll explain eventually.”
“Speaking of explaining,” Nathalie said, pointing to the front page of Le Petit Journal, “this doesn’t. I don’t even know why Monsieur Patenaude printed it.”
A second letter from the killer had been published. She huddled over the newspaper, rereading it yet again.
To Paris,
Thank you for coming to my second exhibit. It was marvelous to see my pieces side by side, if only for a short while. The queues have been most impressive. I don’t want to disappoint, and I promise to give you something fresh to look at soon enough.
Until the next one, I remain,
Ever yours,
Me
“These girls aren’t people to him,” said Simone. “They’re chess pawns.”
“Or works of art.”
Simone raised her brows and sat back. “That’s morbid, even for you.”
“His words, so to speak, not mine. Think about it,” Nathalie said, tucking some loose hairs into her wool felt cap.
“As if the morgue is an art gallery,” Simone said. Her long-lashed eyes narrowed in thought. “Or a wax museum. Speaking of which, I’m taking you there sooner rather than later. You have to see the latest tableaux. Louis says they are among the best he’s seen and that the attention to detail is astounding.”
“What? You want me to have fun? Simone Sophie Marchand, what kind of friend are you?”
“The kind who wonders why you have sat here for an hour but have yet to write that anonymous letter. Don’t think I’m letting you go turn in your article to Monsieur Patenaude until we have something.”
The purpose of Nathalie’s visit today was to write the letter to the Prefect of Police, and the sheet of paper had been giving her a dirty look since she sat down. Now that it was time to put pencil to paper, however, she was having second thoughts. Third and fourth thoughts, even.
“Here’s my list of reasons not to do it: One. Information is minor. Two. Cannot recall any other details. Three. Not even sure what this ability is or why I have it. And four. Feel foolish sending this in. Here’s what I have for reasons to write the letter: One. Simone said so.”
“How about,” Simone said with a chuckle, “you will remain anonymous, you could help them more than you know, and if you were one of those unfortunate girls being gawked at in the morgue, wouldn’t you want your killer brought to justice?”
“Wouldn’t anyone? It’s not that. It’s…” She finished the sentence with a sigh. She knew those were sound reasons, and she’d already thought of every one of them. Amidst all the excitement of having this power, the fear of uncertainty began to slither around her mind. What responsibility would this bring? What if her involvement complicated the investigation … or somehow made her a target for the killer?
She didn’t confess these worries to Simone because she didn’t want to appear selfish.
Besides, if nothing else, this ability meant she had to think beyond herself. Didn’t it?
Simone crossed her ankles. “It’s what?”
“It’s daunting.”
“Start simple, then,” said Simone. She sifted through a box on the table and pulled out an envelope. “One sentence will do, won’t it? ‘The second victim ran from her killer in a hall with a navy blue rug with golden stripes on the edge.’”
“It’s just so … factual. It almost sounds silly,” Nathalie said, exhaling her weariness. “That’s all there is, though, and I don’t want to be dramatic.”
They sat for a moment, thinking.
“I know!” Simone said, snapping her fingers. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before. Tell them how he killed her! In precise detail. They can tell from the autopsy, but no one else would know that. Except you.”
“Except me,” Nathalie said. “Or someone at the morgue, sending it in as a prank.”
“Don’t concern yourself with any of that. They’ll wonder how anyone but the killer could know that. Or they might assume it’s just a good guess. You have nothing to lose, because they might just throw it out. However, you could gain some credibility.”
“I’ll get their attention if nothing else.”
“And,” Simone said, folding her arms, “you remain anonymous.”
Nathalie nodded and picked up the pencil. They spent a few minutes discussing how to word the letter, agreeing that direct and simple would be best. Nathalie closed her eyes and thought through the vision. It took a few minutes to write; she tried not to dwell on the incongruity of capturing a passionate act using aloof language.
The second victim was killed in a hall that had a dark blue rug down the center; the rug had golden stripes along the side. The killer made three cuts along one continuous path: from the left corner of the mouth to the top of the jaw, the bottom of the jaw to the top of the throat, then from throat to collarbone. The deepest slashes were in the neck. The knife was approximately fifteen centimeters in length.
Neat block letters. Unadorned prose. Gruesome honesty. Nathalie didn’t want to read it a second time.
Wax sealer in hand, Simone turned the paper toward herself and read. “Perfect. Shall I?”
Nathalie chewed the inside of her cheek. If she thought about this too much, she might change her mind. Again. “Yes.”
Simone folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and put a wax seal on it. She handed it to Nathalie to address. “Here you go, Mademoiselle.”
Nathalie indulged in another handful of grapes before getting up to go, even though she wasn’t hungry in the slightest. Simone gave her a longer than usual hug and said, in a whisper resonant with both comfort and affection, “You have a gift. This is the right thing to do.”
The dead girl’s murder, slice after slice after slice, flickered through Nathalie’s mind as she nodded in agreement.
* * *
Relief passed over Nathalie, more like a breeze than a gust, when she mailed the letter. She was glad that it was gone, that someone else would now decide what to do with that information. And there was something satisfying about revealing part of her secret yet feeling protected.
As she exited the bureau de poste, she was fiddling with the button on her trousers and collided with a man heading inside.
Well. Of all people.
Nathalie couldn’t say who was more surprised.
12
“Monsieur Gagnon,” said Nathalie, taking a step back. “Imagine that our paths should cross here, too. Paris feels small lately, doesn’t it?”
“Mademoiselle Baudin, is that you?” His ears turned as red as apples. “Small indeed.”
Nathalie gave a brittle laugh. “Another delightful summer day perfect for strolling.”
M. Gagnon tucked the letter he was carrying int
o his coat pocket, then eyed her from her shoes to her cap. “Your clothes,” he said, using that official voice he’d used during their first encounter.
Nathalie straightened up. “What about them?”
“How come you have on, uh … why are you dressed like a young man?”
“Dresses aren’t always convenient,” she said, in a tone suggesting he should know that.
He turned his head askew without breaking eye contact. “That’s why you’re not wearing one? Convenience?”
“Yes. No,” she said, her cheeks warming. She didn’t want to talk about this, and frankly, it was none of his concern. “What brings you here?”
“Business.” He glanced at the door and scratched his palm.
“Isn’t that a sign you’ll receive a letter?”
M. Gagnon returned his gaze to her with arched brows. “What?”
“Your palm.” Nathalie silently thanked Maman for training her so well on the art of changing the subject. “There’s an old wives’ tale that an itchy palm means a letter is on its way. Or money. I forget which.”
He patted his palms together and flashed a quick smile. “You’re not going to explain the trousers and cap, are you?”
Nathalie folded her arms. She had never met anyone who was equal parts attractive and irksome. Each time she saw him, a different side emerged. What was this today? Was he being polite? Inquisitive? Awkward? Maybe he was all three. Simone had told Nathalie he was probably enamored with her, at least somewhat, but Simone often floated on a cloud of romantic thoughts. Not that Nathalie would mind if M. Gagnon were enamored with her. “I’d rather not.”
“I won’t pry,” he said, shifting his weight. “Good day, Mademoiselle Baudin. See you at the morgue, I expect. Since you go every day.”
“I—”
“It’s understandable,” he said. “There’s a lot to see.”
With that he turned on his heel and began to walk away.
“Monsieur Gagnon, weren’t you on your way into the bureau de poste?”
Spectacle Page 8
