The Library of Light and Shadow

by M. J. Rose

  A few times, when his head was bent in conversation with Veronique or Madame, I sneaked a glance at him. He had changed. Of course he had. It had been almost five years since I’d seen him. He’d been twenty-five then, fresh home from the front. There were more lines on his forehead that I could just glimpse under the golden curls and also around his mouth.

  Like every young man his age, he had gone to fight for France in the most horrific and devastating war anyone had ever seen. Over one million Frenchmen had died. More had been wounded. Mathieu had been one of those. After three years in battle under the worst of circumstances, he had been shipped home. The doctors thought he would never regain any use of his right arm, but he had confounded them all. He spent a year in a rehabilitation center and recovered almost full use of the limb. A miracle, he had said, and one that you never forgot for long because of the slightly awkward way he had of reaching for something or putting on a jacket. Yes, there were wounds on his arm and his back. Marks—some deep and menacing, some thin and barely visible. But it was the damage to his psyche that affected him more than anything else.

  So many men suffered the ravages of war. I’d always been thankful that Sebastian had been too young to go. The toll it took was incalculable. Many never recovered. Some returned home only to enter institutions and never leave. Some saw ghosts. Or heard bombs for the rest of their lives. Many couldn’t cope, no matter how much help they got, and killed themselves.

  During the time I’d spent in Paris in love with Mathieu, I’d seen how he endured nightmares and memory loss. At first, he thought it was his duty to suffer, but in time, I persuaded him to try and let me help. It was how I knew he finally trusted me. When I truly understood that he loved me. He took the drafts I made and slept better and longer, and as time passed, he needed less and less of the tisane I’d concocted from my grimoire.

  I wondered how he was sleeping now and if the nightmares had returned. How was he coping with the guilt of knowing his brother had died saving his life? I remembered the awful night I put on my blindfold and drew the past.

  “We were engaged to be married,” Jules Bois was saying, to my right. And the words were oddly resonant, considering that Mathieu had proposed marriage to me. I touched the ring on my finger. The ring Mathieu had touched only an hour earlier.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Emma was too curious about life to settle down with one person. And I was too jealous of her need to experience everything. She has an open mind. So do I but not about her. I wanted her to myself. I could share her with the audience but not with other men.” He smiled. “But as it’s turned out, we’ve wound up married to each other in our own way. Devoted companions. Caring friends. Ready lovers. I would die for her if I had to. That kind of love never alters, never fades. Does it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said.

  “Really? I sensed you’d know about that sort of thing.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not quite sure. But isn’t that what makes for the most exciting conversations? Intuition and curiosity?” Bois asked.

  “I’m not quite sure of that, either.” I smiled at him. “Certainly the most unusual.”

  “Does the unusual disturb you?”

  “Sometimes yes. There are a lot of things about this world you all inhabit, that my mother inhabits—”

  He interrupted. “That you inhabit, too, yes?”

  “Yes, that I inhabit, too. There are a lot of things about it that disturb me, because the occult is the search for hidden knowledge, and hidden knowledge is in the shadows.”

  “And shadows frighten you.”

  “No.”

  “But I can see that they do,” he argued.

  “You’re mistaken, Monsieur Bois.” I didn’t want to encourage any more prying.

  “I think not. Let’s find out what the others see. Picasso? Cocteau?”

  Bois got their attention.

  “Let’s play a little game to help Delphine understand the aura she projects.”

  My discomfort increased. “No, I don’t want to—”

  He interrupted me again and said with a smile, “It’s just a game. And it will help you.”

  “What are the rules?” Picasso asked. “I need to be forewarned so I can break them.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Name me five adjectives to describe Delphine,” Bois said. “There are no rules. You first, Picasso.”

  Picasso studied me the way I study my subjects—as if he were going to paint me.

  “Sensual …” He cocked his head, searching my face. “Frightened, secretive, intelligent, and angry.”

  “Cocteau?”

  “I see intelligent as well. And curious. Rebellious. And yes, frightened. Some sadness. Definitely, sad.”

  “What are you doing, Jules?” Madame asked.

  “Helping Delphine see what she would prefer not to see. Describe her in five adjectives, Emma.”

  I was becoming more and more embarrassed and uneasy, as everyone at the table turned his or her attention to me, including Mathieu. I watched his face but couldn’t read his expression.

  “I only need one. She’s upset,” Madame Calvé said. “With you, Jules. Do apologize to Delphine. She’s not one of your characters.”

  “Mathieu?” Bois asked, ignoring Madame.

  He was about to answer, but before he could say a word, I interrupted and stopped both him and the game. “I think I understand, Monsieur Bois. There’s no need for anyone else to play. You’ve made your point.”

  Sebastian sensed my distress. “Are you all right, Delphine?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  My brother asked Cocteau what he was working on, Madame said something to the opera director, and conversations around us resumed. I still felt Mathieu’s eyes on me but kept from glancing his way.

  “I bow to your ability to see through me, Monsieur,” I said to Bois.

  “So the shadows have you in their grip?”

  I wasn’t sure what he knew or which shadows he meant, but it didn’t matter; it was true, they did. I nodded again.

  “You need to embrace them, you know. The only way to cope with them is to invite them in, to sit down with them at your table and look them right in the eye and confront them.”

  The idea was horrific to me. It was terrible enough to look at other people’s shadows. But my own? I’d never tried to purposely paint my own shadow portrait. The one time I’d done it by accident had been destructive enough.

  Amid the comments about how delicious the chocolate mousse was, rain started to pelt the windows and grew in intensity. Not a gentle, comforting drizzle but an erratic, disturbing downpour. And as I listened to it, I thought of Satie in the heavens, writing this composition for an orchestra of rain and thunder and wind, the symphony of storm.

  Chapter 38

  Anna was a well-known medium, famous for her séances. One of her biggest supporters, Arthur Conan Doyle, had attended several and written about how astonishing he believed her to be. There had been numerous articles about her talent, and of course, I’d read a few of them. One couldn’t be interested in the occult—and it seemed everyone was in the 1920s—without stumbling upon her name. She wasn’t popular just in France but also in England and in New York. Like an opera singer or a theatrical star, she’d gone on several world tours. For as many people who believed in her and flocked to see her, there were even more who tried to debunk her. But so far, no one had been able to prove she was a charlatan. She appeared to have a true gift.

  Séances could be very disturbing when taken seriously. I’d never been drawn to them. There was enough tumult in my own mind and no need to invite more.

  Yet I was curious now to watch Anna in action. Her reputation wasn’t the only reason. When we had been introduced that evening, I was surprised not to sense any mystery about her at all. She was pretty in the most ordinary way. Blond curls, peach-colored skin, lovely hands with perfectly shaped oval nails. S
he’d looked at me with clear gray eyes that showed no hint of guile. She reminded me of a doll in one of the more fashionable shops on rue Saint-Honoré in Paris. Her frilly silver frock and silver slippers matched her eyes. Her mouth, a delightful bow, was lipsticked in a sassy magenta. Her words practically bubbled over when she spoke in a girlish voice that I imagined could become most grating.

  Despite my initial hesitation, I felt no apprehension by the time I sat down at her séance table after dinner. Because of her fame, I assumed she had a keen ability to read people’s thoughts. That wasn’t witchery at all but more connected to science, similar to the way a radio picks up signals. And with an actor’s ability to mimic other people’s voices, one could put on a very powerful performance.

  There were ten of us at the table. My brother and Yves Villant had begged off and were in the library smoking cigars. I sat next to Cocteau, and before anyone could take the seat on my other side, Mathieu slid in.

  This made me nervous, since I feared we would have to hold hands when Anna called the spirits to gather, and I didn’t know if I would be able to bear the feel of his skin on mine again.

  While Madame and Anna prepared the room, Mathieu chatted to me as if I were just another guest. No one listening could have guessed how loaded his questions were.

  “Did you enjoy your escape to New York?” he asked.

  “I did.”

  “What brought you back? Friends? Family? A lover?”

  I tried to keep my voice light and teasing. “Monsieur, you embarrass me. That’s quite a personal question, isn’t it?”

  “Are there any other kinds of questions that matter? There’s too much small talk at parties. Too much surface chatter. If it’s even possible to truly know someone, to begin to know someone, you must ask questions that are sometimes embarrassing.”

  “And accept that the person being questioned won’t answer truthfully.”

  “Which would be a shame, for how else can someone get to the heart of the matter?”

  “What about you? Are you enjoying your shop now that you run the Librairie du Merveilleux?”

  “It’s quite an honor for Uncle Pierre to have turned it over to me.”

  “And you continue to get quite a lot of acclaim for your bookbinding, too. You must be working long hours.”

  “So you keep track of me?” he asked.

  I ignored the question. “Are you quite happy with your work?”

  “I’m satisfied. I don’t know if I can be happy.”

  “I saw one of your books just yesterday. Madame gave one to the groundskeeper’s son.”

  “You’ll see another later. I brought one for you. You know about Emma’s plan for us, don’t you?”

  “Her plan? For us?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. No idea of what us might mean in any context. There was no us and hadn’t been for nearly five years. Only my sister Opaline knew Mathieu existed. We’d run into her by accident one afternoon near L’École. She thought he was one of my classmates, and I didn’t dissuade her from that notion. But then, later that summer, Mathieu visited her jewelry shop to commission my ring. Even though he told me he’d described it to her as a gift of appreciation and friendship, as opposed to an engagement ring, my sister knew we were not just friends but were involved in a serious love affair.

  After Mathieu gave the ring to me, I went to Opaline and begged her to keep my secret. Lying, I said that I wasn’t sure how I felt about him and that until I was certain, I didn’t want the family to know. Why had I been so intent on keeping him a secret? Rereading my Book of Hours, it seemed I was afraid that if I talked about him and shared him with my family, he might disappear like quicksilver, which vaporized when mixed with water even at the lowest temperatures.

  “Don’t worry, mon chat,” Mathieu said.

  He’d often told me I reminded him of a cat because of the lazy way I stretched after I’d been painting for too long and because of the way I stared at him—just the way his cat did—unblinking for so long, inscrutable, telling nothing of what I was thinking.

  I winced at the endearment and the flood of memories it brought back. As if I weren’t already bombarded with enough of them.

  “Emma’s plan,” Mathieu said, “is for me to take your sketches of her house and put them into a book. To keep all the drawings in one place.”

  “So you know everything about why I am here?”

  “I do, yes. Emma and my uncle have been friends since the early days of Péladan and his secret society. She was a member of the original inner circle and has attended the salons and ceremonies for years. I’ve known her since I was a boy working at the bookshop after school. Once she bought this castle, she enlisted Uncle Pierre to help her find the lost Book of Abraham. He’s tracked down dozens of rare books for her, anything with even a single mention of the treasure. When she heard about what happened to you in America and your return, she came to the shop to discuss her plan with my uncle right away.”

  “And you were there, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you told her you knew me?”

  “No. She had a recollection of having met you before and remembered that we’d known each other.”

  “And you confirmed that you knew me?”

  “Yes, Delphine. Why would I have denied it?”

  “And is that all?”

  “That I told her? Yes.”

  “What are you not saying?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It’s all very innocent.”

  “Is your being here also innocent?”

  “Yes. I knew that she’d hired you when she asked me to make the journal for the drawings. But I didn’t know this was the weekend you’d be in residence.”

  “If you didn’t know I’d be here, why did you have the book with you? Why are you here?”

  “I was Satie’s friend. All of us here were. We are also all friends of Emma. We all meet often for dinner and to enjoy one another’s company and explore our shared interests. Emma commissioned the book and asked me to bring it along. She didn’t divulge her guest list.”

  He was annoyed, and I felt the chill coming off him. I’d accomplished my goal. He shifted in his seat and turned to the Ballets Russes dancer on his right.

  As much as it pained me to be aloof with Mathieu, to annoy him, to have him turn his back on me, I was also relieved. I had no intention of reopening my wounds. They’d finally scarred over, if not entirely healed. I’d convinced myself that it was for the best that I’d left. To save him. To keep him safe. Nothing had changed.

  Or had it?

  My mother said she believed in the fluidity of time. That everything was in flux in every dimension and that we could not know for sure that the things we perceived in one moment would still be true in the next. One butterfly wing flapping in India, she always said, could have an effect continents away.

  I thought of Nicky and his butterfly book. All those wings. All those marvelous colors and patterns. What changes did he conjure when he captured those creatures for those minutes, before he set them free again?

  Maybe what I’d seen when I painted Mathieu had changed. Perhaps by leaving Paris when I did, I’d altered the trajectory of his future. And mine.

  Could I dare believe such a thing? Should I put on the blindfold and sketch him again? What if the scene were different this time? Or what if it were the same? Then I would have to endure all the feelings of loss again. The truth did not change. And the truth was that I was Mathieu’s destruction.

  “And so we begin.” Madame Calvé’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “We are here to say good-bye to our brilliant friend Satie. A sad night for us but not for him. Our poet is finally at peace. He’s been released to enjoy the next phase of his journey.” Her voice was luscious and rich, like syrup set to music. Her dramatic sense so powerful she had everyone at the table in her thrall.

  “Now, Anna, dear, I turn it over to you.”

  Throughout dinner,
whenever I’d heard a snippet of Anna’s conversation, I’d thought her flighty and inconsequential. Perfectly in keeping with her blond marcel curls and bright pink bow-shaped lips. But now, commanding the table, she took on an entirely different persona. For one, the flounces were gone. She’d slipped on a navy velvet robe, embroidered with silver stars and moons. Its hood hid her curls, so instead of looking like a young jazz singer, she now appeared as a timeless sage. My fingers itched. I couldn’t help but imagine what secrets I’d see if I put the blindfold on and tried to draw her.

  She poured a few drops of a golden oil into a brass dish. On top of that, she laid a tightly wound bundle of sage leaves. Then she lit a match and set fire to the dried plant. Immediately, I smelled the aromatic odor of the herb and frankincense. The oil was a sacred scent that, as I knew from studying my grimoire, helped the mind travel out of the earthly realm and reach beyond. The incense opened our sensors, enabling us to be more receptive.

  While I hadn’t seen the proof of Anna’s gift when I first met her, I saw it now surrounding her in a silvery aura. My mother had a similar aura around her when she was engaged with other realms. So did my sisters. The air waved in a subtle but visible pattern, comparable to the way heat escaping from an oven caused a visible disturbance if the light was just right. And the color of the air took on the moon’s shimmer.

  “I’d like to request that you lower the lights, Madame. And everyone, please close your eyes,” Anna said, in a voice that was quite deeper and more serious than the one she’d used to chatter during dinner.

  There was a difference in the sound and tenor and timbre in the intonation of someone who believed in the dark arts and the beyond. I’d heard it all my life. I heard it now from Anna.

  “Everyone take the hand of the person beside you,” she instructed.

  On my left, Jules offered me his hand, which was cool to the touch. Not yet old but no longer young, the skin was firm but not smooth. On my right, Mathieu’s hand reached for and took mine. My breath caught in my throat. His grip tightened. I tried to focus on the objective differences between his hand and Jules’s. Mathieu’s hand was much more muscled and the skin rougher because of his binding work. And his touch communicated so much more.