Spectacle

by Jodie Lynn Zdrok

  He faced her again. “Oh yes,” he said. He rolled his eyes in a deliberately amusing fashion. “Have a wonderful afternoon.”

  Nathalie grinned as he passed her and went inside. She didn’t know what to make of him, but she was very glad he’d been noticing her.

  * * *

  When Maman brought in the letter from Agnès three days later, Nathalie tore it open so hastily she made Stanley jump. She had no memory of what she’d written Agnès—how much she had or hadn’t told her about the visions—and had been anxiously awaiting her response these past few days.

  Her heart pounded as she read.

  Dear Nata,

  Yes, I’ve heard about the murders and am astounded. First Pranzini, now this. What is becoming of our beloved Paris?

  There are plenty of whispers in Bayeux about it, and Papa receives the Sunday edition of Le Petit Journal by post once weekly. How can you be so casual about this affair? I can’t think of anything more compelling, especially for the journalist who covers the morgue. Incidentally, your articles are superb—clearly expressed and thoughtful without lapsing into sensationalism. Consider yourself fortunate to experience this moment in journalism. I myself would be queasy seeing the victims, but you … Nata, you have the constitution for it. Are you not thrilled?

  It is hot here, but being a few kilometers inland, we have the benefit of an ocean breeze. We have gone to the beach twice thus far; once nearby, and once on a trek to the Deauville resort, where we stayed two nights. I met a strapping curly-haired boy from Rouen and flirted with him quite a bit. We had lunch together the first day, and he sang to me in Italian. You know what singing means to me—I do miss the choir at Notre-Dame—so this utterly charmed me. I was truly taken, ready to let him kiss me. Then he called me “Anastasia.” I asked who she was, and after much prodding, he sputtered that Anastasia was a girl he’d met at the resort last week. He assured me she’d since gone home. I nevertheless sauntered off, pleased with myself for not kicking sand on him like I wanted to, and read Dostoevsky the rest of the trip.

  As for the ocean, it is as breathtaking as ever. That’s the thing about the sea, isn’t it? It never really changes, and neither does its power to inspire awe. I suppose your father has a hundred stories to go with that sentiment. I cannot wait to see your face next summer when you lay eyes on the ocean for the first time.

  Bayeux is small and intimate and full of history. Lace is produced here, and I have never seen so much lace in my life. (I am rather sick of it.) The cathedral is striking on the outside, though not as remarkable as some I’ve been fortunate enough to see. Vikings were here, can you imagine? And there’s a tapestry depicting the Battle of Hastings. I saw it a few years ago. It’s interesting, I suppose, but whoever sewed the horses did not concern himself much with accuracy.

  The dialect here is unusual, but I’ve grown accustomed to it. There are several English-speaking shopowners here, so I have been practicing. We don’t get to use German and English very often, but I’m still glad we have courses in them. I hope to become fluent in both. Then I can eavesdrop on tourists.

  Oh, and there’s a confectioner who makes the most delectable violet-flavored sweets. They are both smooth and crisp with some kind of jam. If you can believe it, Roger shared with me some he’d gotten for his birthday. I suppose he isn’t completely terrible. Only mostly.

  Are you taking part in the Bastille Day celebrations?

  Tell me more about these murders—even that which you cannot include in your column. Could you send some newspaper articles, old and new, to fill in the blanks? Once weekly doesn’t suffice.

  Bisous,

  Agnès

  By the time she was done, she thought for sure both Stanley and Maman could hear her thumping heart. She held the letter to her chest.

  So she hadn’t told Agnès about the visions. That meant there was a part of her life, at least one part, that hadn’t been tainted by them.

  And she intended to keep it that way, for now.

  Nathalie tucked the letter back into the envelope and sat down. She read through Agnès’s letter one more time (of course Agnès would find a boy at a resort—the boys loved her), and before she went on about her day, she let herself daydream about the ocean for a while.

  * * *

  Paris took a breath, or perhaps heaved a sigh, for the next seven days.

  Victim #2 would forever remain that, an unnamed sculpture in death: Her body was not identified. She had to be pulled from display in the morgue, despite the crowds coming to see her, because nature began calling her back to earth.

  She was decomposing.

  Le Petit Journal and the other newspapers did their best to keep the story alive that week, even during the trial of Henri Pranzini (sentenced to death by guillotine for the triple murder, Nathalie was satisfied to read). M. Patenaude referred to this recent slasher as “the Dark Artist” in an editorial, and the front-page illustration of the Sunday supplement imagined him as a monstrous, cackling brute. The artist depicted his face in shadow and had the Dark Artist standing alone in the viewing room at the morgue, wielding a knife in one hand and a painter’s palette in the other.

  The name took, even across the other daily papers. It also appeared to please the killer himself, who signed his third letter with the new designation:

  To Paris,

  It’s been silent, I know. I’m rather behind on my promise.

  I decided to write in advance of my next exhibit, should you wish to queue up at the morgue early to get an adequate place. I shan’t keep you waiting long.

  Until the next one, I remain,

  Ever yours,

  The Dark Artist

  Nathalie’s bones had tickled from the inside out when she read it. The newspaper printed it a few days after she’d posted her anonymous tip. What if she had stood beside the Dark Artist at the bureau de poste? Or behind him in line? Just like the killer had been in the room the day she’d had her first vision.

  She confided this, and other thoughts, to her journal (having since forgiven it about the memory gap). She wrote everything with as much belief as disbelief. Nothing came from her tip to the Prefect of Police, and while she hadn’t expected it to, she still wanted to keep a record of details in case something else occurred. Observations about the morgue. Theories about the killer. Fragments of conversation she overheard here and there throughout the city. Her own woes and worries about the visions. Now that she’d made the decision to help from afar and didn’t trust her memory, she wanted to be thorough. Just in case.

  Something else nagged at her, too: what Maman had said about Aunt Brigitte seeing things. And since Maman refused to elaborate, Nathalie had but one choice if she wanted to find out what, if anything, that really meant. She needed to visit Aunt Brigitte alone.

  * * *

  After going to the morgue, an atmosphere infiltrated with dread thanks to the third letter, Nathalie made her way to the asylum. The sense of dread followed her; the hair on the back of her neck stood up more than once, and she found herself pausing every now and then, looking over her shoulder.

  Perhaps because this was her first visit alone, aside from the childish excursion several years ago. She told herself it was no more or less unsettling just because Maman wasn’t beside her, even as she stepped into the sluggish cage-door elevator with two nurses escorting a man in a straitjacket. Even as the three of them got off on a floor where a man with one eye gouged out tried to enter the elevator, only to be pulled back by a nurse. Even as Nathalie walked down the hall, past room after room of wordless melancholy and hushed isolation, save for the giggling woman sprawled on the floor outside Aunt Brigitte’s room.

  One of Tante’s roommates was praying. Another stood at the window, tapping it like a telegraph and talking to a bird on the other side, begging it to bring her a worm to eat.

  Aunt Brigitte was sitting on the edge of her bed, eyes closed, and fussing with her braid.

  Nathalie whispered a hell
o to her aunt, who opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Home. I was in the neighborhood today and thought I’d visit.”

  Aunt Brigitte scrunched up her face into a girlish grin and put out a bony hand to stroke Nathalie’s cheek.

  Her hand was so cold. So very cold. Nathalie didn’t think you could be so cold and yet alive.

  Aunt Brigitte went through her usual ritual of thanking Nathalie for coming and complaining about her roommates’ eating and sleeping and praying habits. She did not, however, mention any dreams from the previous night. When Nathalie asked her if she’d had any, she grimaced.

  “Nightmares,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about them.”

  Nathalie understood that well enough. No one cared to relive nightmares. Given the vivid nature of Aunt Brigitte’s dreams and her fragile state of mind, Nathalie supposed her nightmares were doubly horrifying.

  Her aunt sighed and fell silent.

  As difficult as the next sentence was for Nathalie to say, she knew this was her opportunity. She cleared her throat.

  “I learned only recently, Tante, that you—that you see things.”

  Aunt Brigitte’s gaze fixed on her like an owl on the hunt.

  “I mean before,” Nathalie added, in a small voice. “Before … here.”

  Aunt Brigitte stared at her niece without blinking. “I know what I saw. I wanted to save the baby.”

  “What did you see?” Nathalie’s tone was more apprehensive than intended.

  Aunt Brigitte, after a quick glance at her roommates, motioned for Nathalie to come near.

  “He was about to drown the child,” she hissed. “The priest was getting ready to drown the child in the baptismal font. Do you know why?”

  Nathalie was so close she wondered if Aunt Brigitte could hear her pounding heart. Priest? Baptismal font?

  “It was his child. The mother was a nun. They were about to murder the child, right there in church, after baptizing it.” She placed her hand on Nathalie’s shoulder and pulled her closer yet. Her voice dropped to something just above a whisper. “If I hadn’t trembled and dropped the knife, I could have slit both their throats. And saved the baby.”

  Nathalie stopped breathing.

  It took her a few seconds to realize it.

  “I ran away screaming. They didn’t even come after me.” Aunt Brigitte let go of Nathalie and sat back. “But they drowned the baby anyway. I hid in the bushes and watched them leave with the body. I would have tried again to kill them if I still had the knife.”

  Nathalie stepped back, swallowing hard. This wasn’t Maman’s story.

  Aunt Brigitte clutched Nathalie’s wrist. “Why did you ask?”

  “I—I didn’t know anything about this. Maman said you saw things, and she only told me about the Seine, and—”

  “The Seine!” Her voice became as sharp as a sword. “Jealousy! Misunderstanding! He was a good man but they didn’t see that.”

  Nathalie was even more confused. “He? The man you—”

  She wanted to say the word “attacked” but stopped short. Aunt Brigitte’s face fell.

  “I know what I saw!” she cried.

  Aunt Brigitte repeated I know what I saw over and over again, her cries erupting into heaving sobs. A nurse rushed in and tried to calm her down but it was too late.

  The wailing only intensified.

  Nathalie slowly retreated out of the room. Trust no one. Tante had a reason for saying that. It was somehow connected to this, her insanity, whatever it was that put her here.

  Aunt Brigitte’s roommate emerged from the room pulling her own hair, then reached for Nathalie’s.

  “No,” said Nathalie, extending her hand. The woman frowned and began to moan. She can’t speak. Nathalie hurried away from her and down the hall.

  Aunt Brigitte’s screams chased her right into the elevator.

  13

  Nathalie arranged the last of the newspaper clippings, straightened out the pile, and began to write her letter.

  Dear Agnès,

  They are calling him the Dark Artist—and he has taken to the name. I needn’t explain why, as the enclosed articles will explain everything. I would not advocate reading them prior to sleep, as you may have nightmares. I have had many.

  Do you think I have been casual in the sharing of it? Careful, perhaps. Or it could be that the journalist in me is accustomed to taking on the tone of reporting when I write. Thank you for your kind words about my articles (I have included others).

  You asked if I am thrilled. I have to say, this is without a doubt the most exciting set of experiences I have undergone directly.

  Nathalie paused. Would that suffice? Sending Agnès a number of articles, answering questions she asked directly … that should satisfy her curiosity. She hoped.

  Bastille Day—I watched some of the parade on my way to work. It could have been my perception, but the crowd seemed thinner and more subdued this year.

  I’ve been thinking about the ocean. What does it feel like to stand in the sand, amidst the waves? Papa spends time on the sea, but rarely in it, and certainly not on holiday. I imagine the ocean water to be refreshing and powerful. How does it smell to you? Salty, I know. Papa says as much. What does that mean to you, though? It cannot be like the salt and water Maman makes me gargle when I have a sore throat. There must be more to it.

  Those violet confections sound divine. Enjoy one on my behalf. I promise to dedicate my next pain au chocolat to you, in honor of sharing one together upon your return.

  Bayeux sounds utterly charming. Vikings. I shall ask Maman to fashion a Viking hat for me for my visit next summer. What do you say of that?

  Bisous,

  Nata

  A Viking hat. Nathalie chuckled as she put the paper and articles into an envelope. She could picture herself walking around a little town with it, Agnès laughing but mortified.

  Maybe next summer would indeed be very different from this one.

  * * *

  The Dark Artist’s third exhibit was far more grisly than the previous two.

  If Odette appalled onlookers and Victim #2 magnified the savagery, then the atrocity committed on this girl’s body spoke for all of them. Her inky hair was in a long, messy braid. It cascaded down her right shoulder and over her exposed breast, framing the deep, reddish-black ear-to-collarbone cut. She had the facial bruising of the others. What used to be her left temple was now a fist-sized cavity outlined in crimson and black.

  Nathalie didn’t touch the glass, however, because she and Simone had a plan. Yet she felt an unexpected tickle of desire. The vision was there, hers for the taking, if she wanted it. She shook her head forcefully, as if doing so would remove such thoughts.

  She reached into her bag for the tube of catacomb dirt. For peace. For good luck. For something, whatever it could offer her right now. She wrapped her fingers around the glass vial, willing the perceived fortune to travel up her arm and spread throughout her body.

  Suddenly Nathalie felt like she was being watched. Her eyes went to M. Gagnon, standing guard beside his black velvet curtain. He met her gaze without looking away and then smiled like someone who was in on a secret.

  Nathalie returned the smile.

  “If you want to gawk at him instead of the bodies,” said a gruff voice to her right, “move over and let someone else see.”

  Heat slinked up her neck and onto her cheeks. She turned to see a stout man, a few days’ worth of stubble circling his pout, behind her. “Je suis désolée,” she said, but he waved off her apology.

  Nathalie peeked over her shoulder at M. Gagnon as she left the morgue. His eyes were fixed on the third victim. She’d never observed him studying the bodies before. If anything, he’d always seemed indifferent, probably so he wouldn’t go mad seeing corpses all day. A colleague entered the display room and spoke, startling him.

  The testy little man who shooed her along was coming toward the exi
t. He glared at her and opened his mouth to speak. Her priority was getting to Simone, not engaging with this undersized fool, so she hurried out the door and shut it before he could get through.

  The flurry of curse words that followed her across the street told her, quite clearly, that she’d timed it just right.

  * * *

  Maman was at the tailor shop visiting her friends, so Nathalie took advantage of the solitude and wrote her column from home. After she changed into her trousers, she examined her reflection—not for vanity, but to make sure she was convincingly not a girl.

  Her dark waves were tucked into a wool felt cap, making her long neck appear even longer. The trousers, tan and roomy, dropped over her sturdy shoes. This pair of trousers was several centimeters too short (she should have listened to Maman and waited until morning to hem them, but she’d mistakenly assumed she was skilled enough to do it in the dim candlelight). A straight-fitting white shirt, cuffs folded back, completed the ruse.

  She grabbed her satchel, put it on like a messenger bag, and made her way to the steam tram depot.

  Although Nathalie could pass as a boy from several meters away, a closer look would suggest otherwise; her features were undoubtedly those of a young woman. Dusted with freckles. A petite, slightly rounded nose, just like Maman. High, almost severe cheekbones, also from her mother. Inquisitive brown eyes, like Papa, but with long lashes.

  From the chin down, she looked very much like a boy when she dressed the part. Being lanky and small-busted, for better or for worse, helped. A dainty chimera.

  It was interesting, having to dress this way. Not every girl would have agreed to it. Agnès, always ladylike and well-dressed, envied the job but almost certainly wouldn’t wear boy clothes for it or any other position. Simone probably would not only agree to it but embrace it unflinchingly, pretend it was a role (as she encouraged Nathalie to do), and somehow still be eminently feminine. As for Nathalie, she loved it as much as she hated it; wearing these clothes both empowered and embarrassed her.