Sleep, Pale Sister

by Joanne Harris

  The light was reddish. It was almost as difficult to adjust my eyes to as total darkness. Incense was burning, an erotic scent like patchouli, and as Fanny guided me to a sofa and poured the drink—she seemed to have no trouble finding her bearings—I glimpsed gilt hangings studded with fake gems on the walls, brass ornaments on the furniture and one statue in particular, a huge bronze circle in which a four-armed god seemed to dance. In the flickering red light I saw him move.

  Fanny held out a glass of warm punch to me and I took it without taking my eyes off the statue.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Shiva, god of the moon,’ replied Fanny. ‘And of death.’ I drank to hide the abrupt return of my unease. The liquid was sharp, cramping my tastebuds; and beneath the sharpness was something almost bitter.

  ‘Idolatrous nonsense,’ I said more loudly than I intended. ‘It looks…quite savage.’

  ‘The world is savage,’ said Fanny lightly. ‘I find him a most appropriate god. But if he disturbs you…’ her voice trailed off, questioningly and with a touch of mockery.

  Stiffly I said: ‘Of course not. It’s only a statue.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you for the time, Mr Chester.’ She cleared her throat politely, and I remembered to pay her, fumbling guineas out of my pocket. Ever-ladylike, she palmed the coins as deftly as a conjuror, seeming hardly to notice them. Then she turned to the door.

  ‘I’ll allow Marta to introduce herself,’ she said, and left.

  For a moment I watched the door in bewilderment, expecting the girl to come in, then a tiny noise behind me alerted me and I spun round, half spilling the drink in a glittering arc around me. At that moment I was certain, with a superstitious conviction, that the statue of Shiva had come to life and was reaching for me with his four arms, his eyes alive with malicious intent. I almost screamed.

  Then I saw her sitting in the shadows, hardly visible against the heavy folds of an Indian tapestry. I regained my composure as best I could, trying to restrain my anger at being caught unawares. I finished the drink Fanny had given me and put the glass on the mantelpiece; by the time I turned again I was calmer, able to smile reassuringly at the girl, squinting to make out her features in the troubling light.

  I saw that she was young, maybe fifteen or so, and very slim and slight. Her long, loose hair looked black, but her eyes might have been any colour, for they reflected the red lamps like rubies. Her eyelids and eyebrows were heavily painted with kohl and gilt, and her skin had a kind of golden warmth which I associated with gypsies. She was wearing a silken kimono of some dull red material which accentuated her slim, childish figure, and around her neck and arms and in her ears heavy crimson stones smouldered and sparkled.

  For a second I caught my breath at her beauty.

  ‘M…Marta?’ I faltered. ‘Is that your name?’

  ‘I’m Marta,’ she said. Her voice was a whisper, slightly hoarse but with a soft country accent tempered with a touch of aloof mockery, rather like Fanny’s own.

  ‘But I…’ Realizing: ‘I met you before. I went into your room by accident.’

  No answer.

  ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’ The innuendo I hoped to put into the phrase fell sadly flat.

  ‘Are you…’ Again I was lost for words. ‘Are you new to…I mean…Are you…?’ I could sense her mockery again, heady and bewildering.

  ‘I am here for you,’ she murmured, and for a moment I imagined that she had come to take my soul, like the Angel of Death. ‘Just for you.’

  ‘Ah.’ Absurdly, I felt diminished, inarticulate as a schoolboy with a whore many years older than himself. Almost…almost as if this girl were not a fifteen-year-old slut but the virgin keeper of some immortal mystery. I shifted uneasily in my chair, wanting her but unable to speak. She was in control.

  ‘Come closer, Mr Chester,’ she whispered, ‘and I’ll tell you a story.’

  ‘The young man set off in search of the Witch, and from afar the Witch saw him in her glass and smiled. She had waited so long for him to come, and for three days now she had felt his presence everywhere, in the milky winter sky, in the misty moor, in the chestnuts roasting by the hearth and, this morning, in the eye of the Hanged Man. It was hardly anything: a glance, no more, a semblance of a knowing wink, but for the Witch it was enough, and she waited, throwing another brick of peat on to the fire, scanning the cards for the first glimpse of his face.

  ‘Others saw him come and shook their heads: they did not know his story, though it would have made a fine tale for a winter’s evening, and they did not want to know it—only the blameless or the mad go in search of witches, and the gifts they offer are not always easy to bear. But the young man was rash and confident, striding out over the moor with the eagerness of one who has never strayed from the path. There was anger in his heart, and revenge, for beneath his handsome face there was a monster: a monster which came shambling out of the darkness every night to feed upon human flesh. The Witch’s enchantments had created the monster, and the young man knew that only by slaying the Witch could he ever break the curse.’

  She paused for a moment, laying her small, cool hand on my face. I felt her arms creep around me so that she was whispering into the hair at the back of my neck, making the hackles want to rise. The feeling was both erotic and disturbing.

  ‘So…’ I could hear the smile in her voice as she continued: ‘The young man travelled across the moor until he came to the spot where the Witch lived; and when he saw her red caravan in a hollow of the hills he felt a thrill of joy and terror. It was almost night and, under cover of the bloody sunset, he crept to her caravan and looked in.

  ‘The Witch was waiting. She saw him at the door and could not suppress her laughter as he raised his sword.

  “‘Prepare to meet your end, Witch!” he cried.

  ‘The Witch stepped out into the light, and the young man saw that she was beautiful. She parted her robe…like this.’

  With a superb gesture she dropped the kimono to the floor. For a moment she stood before me like a pagan goddess, her skin red copper in the rosy light, her hair loose, brushing her waist. Behind her Shiva stretched out his arms in graceful, savage desire. In a single, fluid movement she reached for my shirt and unbuttoned it: I, like a victim of bewitchment, found myself unable to move, assailed from all sides by the vibrant sensuality which clung to her, almost visibly, like St Elmo’s fire. As she turned her face towards the light I saw her through the red veil of her hair: it reached into my entrails and dragged me screaming towards her…And yet there was no love, no tenderness in her eyes: only a kind of hunger, a fathomless elation which might have been lust or vengeance or even hate. I found I didn’t care.

  She sat atop me like a scarlet Centaur, face turned towards the ceiling, every muscle straining towards completion. I felt her devouring me; the pleasure was huge, annihilating, agonizing…

  ‘…And when they had finished the young man drew out his dagger and cut the Witch’s throat so that no-one would ever know how she had fed the monster within him, nor how eagerly it had fed.’

  She was behind my back once more, the fall of her hair streaming over my left shoulder, the fragrance of her sweet, warm skin overwhelming me. I hardly heard what she was saying, but was content simply to be in her presence.

  ‘Then the young man slept for many hours, and when he awoke he found that it was daylight and the caravan was empty. He turned to go, but suddenly he caught sight of the Witch’s card-case lying open on the table. An inexplicable compulsion seized him to open up the case and see the cards. They were beautiful, each one smooth as ivory and painted in exquisite detail.’

  At any moment I expected the usual rush of self-loathing to break upon me: all my lust was spent and I never dallied with whores after I had used them…I rarely even wanted to see them again. But this was different. For the first time in my life I felt a tenderness for this woman—this girl—something I had not experienced even with Effie. Especially not with E
ffie. Something in me wanted to taste her, to know her: as if the mere act we had performed had been nothing…nothing revealed, nothing spoiled. I realized with sudden, exhilarating clarity, that this was the Mystery. This girl; this tenderness.

  ‘On an impulse the young man spread the cards on the table in the pattern he knew as the Tree of Life. The Hermit, the Star, the Lovers, the Knave of Coins, Love, Lust, the High Priestess, Change…Suddenly the young man felt uneasy. He did not want to see the last card, the Fate card. His hand trembled as he reached out towards the card and turned it over, gingerly, afraid to see it.

  ‘Le Pendu: the Hanged Man…He looked away, chilled. It meant nothing! The cards had no power over him.

  ‘And yet, his eyes turned once again towards the card on the table, slyly, fearfully.’

  I touched her neck, her arm, the taut curve of her thigh.

  ‘Marta…’

  ‘The face on the card seemed familiar. He looked again. Dark hair, clear brow, even features…He stepped back a pace.

  ‘No! No. His imagination was playing tricks on him. And yet, looking at the card from a distance, he could almost believe that he recognized the face of the Hanged Man…was almost sure he did…’

  ‘Marta.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I love you.’

  In the dark, her kiss was sweet.

  32

  At first I was furious.

  At myself, for supposing that Fanny would give me any real help, at Effie for allowing herself to be dragged into such a dangerous, idiotic masquerade, but most especially with Fanny. I damned her to six kinds of hell when she told me that Effie was in the room with Henry and demanded to know what game she was playing.

  She was maddeningly aloof.

  ‘But your game, my dear Mose,’ she replied sweetly. ‘We’re fabricating a scandal so that you can discredit Henry and lay hands on his money. Isn’t that right?’

  It was, but I didn’t want the whole thing exposed before I got any profit out of it, and I said as much.

  ‘It won’t be exposed,’ she said with a smile. ‘Henry won’t recognize her.’

  That was ridiculous. Henry was married to her, for God’s sake!

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ continued Fanny, ‘I don’t think you’d recognize her. She’s a very good…actress.’

  I uttered an expletive which only made her smile.

  ‘Just watch,’ she urged, with gentle mockery. ‘I assure you that your precious money is quite safe.’

  There was nothing else but to do as she asked. There was a peep-hole set into the wall behind a hanging tapestry and from it I could see into the parlour without any danger of being seen. As I set my eye against the hole I recall wondering uneasily how many other peep-holes existed in the house, and how often they were put into use.

  Not that I expected anything more than a ridiculous confrontation between Effie and Henry: the girl would break down or go into hysterics as soon as he recognized her. I’d be lucky if I escaped arrest and, if Henry wanted it, here was the finest possible excuse to put his wife away in an asylum for ever. What was more, if she was goose enough to think that he might not recognize her, she belonged in one.

  I was so engrossed in my bitter thoughts that for some time I did not really notice details of the actors in the little shadow-play Fanny had staged for my benefit. After some time had elasped, however, I was able to observe with a dispassionate, acrid curiosity, and I was even able to feel a small resurgence of my sense of humour. When I came to think of it, the whole situation did seem blackly comic. I might be in prison within the week for either bankruptcy or fraud, but I was able to feel the beginnings of a sour grin somewhere in the region of my stomach.

  I could not hear what was being spoken, but my eyes had adjusted to the red light, and I could distinguish the features of both Henry and the girl.

  Effie?

  I squinted through the tiny hole, frowning. ‘That’s not Effie.’ I had spoken aloud without meaning to, and I heard Fanny chuckle to herself by my side. I looked again, trying to see the resemblance.

  It definitely wasn’t Effie. Oh, there was a superficial resemblance, something in the figure and the shape of the face, but this girl was younger, her hair darker. In the deceitful light it might have been any shade between black and auburn, but it looked thicker than Effie’s. The eyes were darker, too, and heavy with make-up, the brows were thick and black. But the real difference was in the way the girl moved: she had the fluid, snakelike grace of an exotic dancer, the teasing manner of the born courtesan. Effie was awkward, questing, passionate; this girl was cool, elegant in every movement but remote, perfectly, almost painfully in control.

  But just as angry relief threatened to burst out in further imprecations against Fanny I saw that after all it was Effie, but a facet of Effie I had never suspected. For a second I was overcome with admiration—and something a little more primitive. I wanted this girl, this burnished gypsy. At that moment, perhaps, I wanted her even more than I wanted Henry’s money…at least, it’s the only explanation I can offer for the fact that I did not put an end to the dangerous charade that very night.

  When Henry finally left the house, Fanny collected Effie from the little parlour and took her up to her own dressing-room to help her change. There I saw the cunning array of devices with which they had created the person they called ‘Marta’: the paints, powders, dyes and ointments which Fanny removed using a variety of creams and lotions. Then I watched as Fanny washed Effie’s hair in a sharp-scented, clear distillation so that the dye they had used could be rinsed out with clear water.

  Effie was passive throughout, uninterested in my observations or even my praise for her spectacular performance; and, when all traces of her disguise had been removed she fell into a heavy, somnolent state as if she had been drugged, hardly responding when I spoke to her. With a sharp glance at Fanny I wondered whether ‘Marta’ was not in fact a creation born of Fanny’s strong aphrodisiacs. I wondered, not for the first time, what Fanny’s game really was.

  It was three o’clock when I was able to take Effie home. She spent some time drying her hair in front of the fire before Fanny declared her ready to leave, and I remember watching them both: Effie with her head in Fanny’s lap; combing out her drying hair in long, sweeping strokes; Effie in her turn stroking the cats at her feet in unconscious imitation. The thought struck me that they looked alike in the symmetry of their posture and the quietude of their expressions, like sisters, like lovers. I was excluded, unconsciously, to be sure, but excluded; and although I was not in love with Effie I felt a kind of troubled anger. I was so deep in my thoughts that when Fanny eventually spoke I started guiltily.

  ‘Now, my dear,’ she said softly, ‘it’s time to wake up. Come now.’

  Effie, who as far as I could see had not been asleep, stirred and lifted her head a little.

  ‘Shhh, yes, I know you’re tired, but you have to go home now. Remember?’

  Effie made a small sound of acquiescence or protest.

  ‘Come now, Effie. You’ll be back soon.’

  Effie looked up and, as she saw me, the confused expression dropped from her face and she smiled with more vivacity than I had seen all night.

  ‘Mose!’ she exclaimed, as if I had not been sitting there beside her half the night. ‘Oh, Mose!’ And I’ll be damned if she didn’t leap up there and then and fling her arms around my neck.

  I was inclined to give her a sarcastic reply, but at that moment I saw the expression of complex satisfaction on Fanny’s face and decided against it. Something was brewing in that witch’s head of hers, and I wasn’t going to be fool enough to ignore it. A dangerous woman, Fanny Miller: remember that, if you ever meet her.

  So, as I said, I had to take Effie back home before the servants woke up: her hair was nearly dry by now and she put on her old dress and cloak. She seemed almost exhilarated, though she was evasive about the events I had witnessed in the parlour. In the cab I ventured to as
k her a direct question and she looked at me with an odd expression of blankness.

  ‘Ask Marta,’ she said simply, and would say no more.

  I forbore to tease her. I expect she knew I had been watching and felt a certain embarrassment to talk about it. It was natural enough, I suppose. No, it was Fanny I needed to talk to: she was the one who had engineered this situation. Effie was simply a tool. It was late, but as soon as I had delivered Effie to her door I turned and made my way back towards Crook Street.

  33

  I knew he’d come back. I’d seen him watching us with six kinds of hell in his eyes and I knew he wasn’t at all satisfied. He liked to be in control, did Mose. He didn’t like to be kept in the dark and he hated being used—he was bright enough to see that in a way he had been used, and it was important for me to keep him sweet until I didn’t need him any more.

  I was careful to show more warmth than at our previous meeting: to tell the truth, it wasn’t difficult. My plan had succeeded even better than I had expected, and when Mose arrived I was feeling elated and suffused with energy. He, on the other hand, was cool and wary, suspecting a conspiracy but not certain where to begin looking. He walked into the parlour, hands in his pockets, his brows winged in a slight frown.

  ‘Mose, what a pleas—’

  ‘That was a dangerous game to play with my future, Fanny,’ he interrupted drily. ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain what in hell’s name you were trying to do?’

  I gave him my sweetest smile.

  ‘Temper, Mose,’ I chided laughingly. ‘What are you complaining about? You were never in any danger, and you know it.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point,’ he snapped. ‘We had an agreement, and I expected you to keep it. In any case, you took a gamble and I was the stake: what if Chester had recognized Effie? I would have had the devil to pay. Chester’s an influential bastard—do you think he’d let me go with a rap on the knuckles? He’d do his utmost—’