The night was still relatively young and I thought a walk home might do me some good. It would give me time to clear my head, and I hoped the exercise might exhaust me enough that Munroe's plaintive song would stop echoing through my skull. I walked with no clear direction or purpose, choosing to meander rather than head straight for home, so perhaps it was my subconscious guiding me and not sheer chance when I found myself walking toward the Nightingale, drawn like a moth to memory's flame. As I approached I could see a group of young men at the entrance smoking cigarettes in the cool autumn air, and I wondered if it was possible the soft singing I heard wasn't just my imagination. My heart began to beat furiously, my pace slowed; I was so afraid of disappointment that it took all my willpower to remain on my feet. The young men eventually noticed me, and though they said nothing nor acted, I could tell my appearance was somewhat bemusing. I pretended I couldn't see them and instead walked by, feeling their eyes upon me. I couldn't bring myself to enter the Nightingale, but I did sneak a glance through the front window of the club as I passed and witnessed my worst fear: there was no one on the stage. In fact, the curtain had been removed and in its place stood only the unmanned piano. It seemed Elaina Munroe had truly gone. I was glad at that point those young men were at my back so they couldn't see the look of despair I knew I must have been wearing.
The urge to wander destroyed, I was struck with the desire to be at home as quickly as possible. It was safe there, secure, and with the door closed I could pretend everything in my life was as it had been before Albert left. It was easy as long as I didn't turn out the light, because in the darkness all I could think of was her and the way he must have been touching her. I altered my course from the main street and took a narrow alley lined with little shops that I knew would put me one street closer to home. I hoped an unoccupied cab might drive by so I could flag it. I was so intent on reaching that street that at first I didn't notice the veiled figure that swept from one of the darkened storefronts. It wasn't until I saw who followed her that I paid attention.
He was well over six foot, his long beaked face squinting out at the narrow lane from behind round spectacles. My heart already knew what my brain had yet to piece together, and the rushing blood made everything that much fuzzier. Her voice cut through the murk, though it brought with it its own problems. I didn't know if I should continue walking, let alone speak.
"Excuse me," I croaked. The two turned around, the larger focusing his perpetual scowl on me. "Are you -- don't you perform at the Nightingale?"
The tall man took a step forward, putting the smaller woman behind him, but she grazed his arm with her fingertips and he stood down. Unhappily, but he did.
"Yes, I sing there. Maybe you've heard me?"
"I have," I stammered, but she didn't seem to care. Her smile was slightly lopsided, something that had a strange dizzying effect on me. I knew my mind would dine on the sight for at least a week. Even the air smelled sweeter when she was near.
"Thank you -- I'm sorry. I didn’t catch your name?"
"It's Wesley. Wesley Cardin. You may remember my friend, Albert Pane? He visits the club a lot, apparently."
Her eyes widened. "Albert! Of course! How is Albert? I haven't seen him in weeks!"
"He's out of town right now," I said, then cemented it with: "Indefinitely."
"That's right. He'd mentioned something about that. He and I were supposed to go out after my show, but he just disappeared, didn't he, Mr. Pellet?"
The hulking man did not change his expression or the direction of his glower. I began to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
"That's too bad," I said, though it was clear Mr. Pellet had confronted Albert, and my old friend had run off with his tail between his legs. I tried to suppress my smile. All that room in his skull and he couldn't find any courage to pack it with. Where he failed I intended to succeed. I surreptitiously adjusted my jacket to appear at my best, but when I casually looked at Mr. Pellet he seemed to have been watching me the entire time. He simply shook his head, slowly and gravely.
"Stay away," he said. His voice was cold and graveled and seemed to be inside my head.
"Play nice," Elaina Munroe cooed, and I blinked then attempted to smile and pretend my core had not just been shaken. "Tell me, Wesley, when were you at the show?"
"It was about a month ago. I thought it was fantastic. You were fantastic."
"But you've never come back?"
"Well, I -- that is," I said sheepishly, "I thought you'd -- er, sort of left town."
She smiled coyly at me and my heart fluttered.
"Now whatever gave you that idea?"
I laughed, more because it seemed appropriate, but in truth I was so nervous I could barely understand what she was saying. My mouth had become so dry I had trouble speaking.
"Now that I know you're still in town, I fully intend on coming by the Nightingale to see you perform."
"Please do," she said, rather excitedly. "You definitely need to come."
"And afterward," I said, my knees shaking like those of a younger man, "perhaps you'd like to get that drink that Albert promised you? With me, I mean." I stuttered and stumbled, but I was relieved to finally get it out. I expected the worst, but what I got was another ambiguous smile.
"Maybe. My stage door is always open to friends. We are friends, aren't we, Wesley? Any friend of Albert's is surely a friend of mine."
"I think we are," I said, perhaps a little too excitedly. I looked at Mr. Pellet who continued to stare with disapproval. I wanted to ignore him but I suppose fear urged me to do otherwise. Still, I silently vowed I wouldn't let him get to me the way he had to Albert.
"Elaina?" Pellet said. Again, that voice -- its register was so deep it passed straight into my skull. Elaina Munroe didn't seem bothered by it, only irritated by her companion's interjection.
"Yes, of course," she said, turning her glare into a welcoming look as she focused on me. "We must be going, but promise me you'll come."
"I promise," I said, "but when are you performing next?"
She giggled as Mr. Pellet walked her away, her tiny hand on his arm. "I'm there all the time; just find me," she said, and then waved at me using only her fingers. I stood in the dark unable to move from the tumultuous emotions within me. I didn’t understand fully what had happened, but whatever it was left me at once both positively giddy and tired. I wanted to share my excitement with someone but I was alone, and the only friend I had who might be interested was somewhere in Bermuda, most likely regretting whatever it was he'd done to drive away Elaina Munroe. It must have been terrible because he refused to contact me to admit his failure.
Despite what she told me, Elaina Munroe was not at the Nightingale "all the time." I went for her the next night, a warm and sickening sensation gripping me as I raced to the nightclub, but when I arrived I saw the stage in the same state of disuse as it had been in the previous night. The piano still sat upon its edge, but it was covered with a large stained drop cloth upon which were the jackets of the group of young men and woman standing in front of it, laughing and taking long drags from their thin clove cigarettes. There was no show that night, nor was there any indication one might ever return. When I was able to persuade my body to move, I asked the young bartender about Elaina Munroe and when she might be singing again. He looked terrified of the question, the thick skin of his forehead buckling in long lines as his eyes scanned the crowd for some help. Getting none, and eager no doubt to be rid of me, he said, "I don't know. This is my first night." I thanked him, despite my confidence that I'd seen him at the Nightingale the last time I was there. But I couldn't be sure; they all looked the same to me -- a long string of fledglings working behind the bar or waiting the tables. Dejected, I huffed and strode out of the Nightingale.
Weeks passed before Elaina Munroe and her oversized accompanist returned. By then, I had convinced myself I'd given up -- despite faithfully returning to the Nightingale each night, ostensibly to sit and
drink my sorrow away. My memory of that time is a haze, and though I can clearly recall distorted creatures with large empty eyes shrilly chirping at me I have no idea how many of those memories are real and how many can be attributed to my drunken delirium. I know I still hadn't heard from Albert Pane in all that time, and I vaguely recall laughing about his failure and how at least I'd stayed to face mine. We were the same that way, he and I, both victims of Elaina Munroe and her angelic voice. No one else I met at the Nightingale seemed to understand what I meant, but perhaps I wasn't speaking as clearly as I'd hoped. More than once I suffered a loss of time, where I could remember nothing between opening the door of the Nightingale and waking up on the floor of my bedroom -- whatever happened between lost to the black void of time.
When I entered the Nightingale I could sense something different about the crowd. There was an energy flowing among them -- an electrical buzz that made the hairs on my arms stand and my heart race -- but I could see nothing out of the ordinary. But the smell -- I knew that scent immediately, detected it beneath the colognes the crowd doused themselves with before going out. The odor was peculiar -- like nutmeg, or some similar spice. It ignited a fire in me, a fire that was further stoked by the sight of Mr. Pellet on the stage, stern-faced as he pulled the cloth from the piano and rolled it into a ball. I swallowed and the noise seemed to alert him -- he cocked his beaked head and turned toward me. I swallowed again as he dropped the sheet and stormed through the door at the rear of the stage.
I should have felt afraid, but I didn't. If anything, I felt elated. Elaina Munroe had returned, and I had no intentions of letting her disappear again. I went to the familiar young bartender and ordered a drink to steady my nerves.
"Is that her?" he asked. I turned and saw a vision with upswept hair in a flowing scarlet dress walk out onto the stage. She placed her lithe hand above her eyes to shield them from the spotlight. "Is that the girl you've been looking for?"
I watched her scan the crowd, and when her stare settled on me, I saw her smile her crooked smile. I was on fire.
"All my life," I replied.
She wasn’t the only one looking at me. Above the crowd floated Mr. Pellet's face as he stalked toward me, pushing bodies aside as though his wrath made them weightless. I turned for support only to find the bartender had vanished, abandoning me to the giant's ire. I would have to stand my ground alone while the flutter of rushing air filled my ears. When Pellet reached me it was as though a storm cloud passed over the sun; his voice was the thunder.
"You need to leave."
He hulked over me, sweat beading on his furrowed brow, nostrils flaring, and as his tiny eyes glared menacingly at me -- their size magnified behind his enormous spectacles -- I realized his motivations were not as pure as I'd first suspected. It was so clearly marked upon his face that knowing the truth fed me all the strength I needed.
"Elaina asked you to find me, didn't she?"
He began to shake as I spoke, his features bulging, the tint of his skin flushing. Despite what I'd just said, I was afraid, but I hid it as best I could. I noticed his large hands clench into fists that were larger than my head, and I wondered how much physical violence I could withstand before I'd welcome death. For her, it would have been any amount. Instead, his steam dissipated, and resignation washed over him.
"If I see you again," he said, "it will be the last time."
He didn't wait for me to leave. Instead, he turned and pushed his way back through the crowd toward the stage. I hoped Elaina had seen me confront her oversized companion -- playing David to his Goliath -- but when I looked I saw she had left the stage, no doubt disappearing to prepare for her performance. I felt nervous, but was unsure why. The bartender reappeared as though he'd been hiding, waiting for Pellet to leave.
"He looked angry enough to swallow you whole."
I smiled weakly, dismissing his attempt at coercion, and gathered my coat. I was invigorated, and wouldn't let anything stop me from attaining my prize. Not some giant skulled man-boy or some overgrown musician. Leave? No, I wouldn't leave. Instead, I made a beeline for the backstage door. Unlike Pellet, I couldn’t push my way through the crowd, but in the end I didn't have to. One by one they casually stepped aside, as though they were merely shifting feet, and I felt the entire room urging me onward to claim my prize.
I reached the backstage door and felt my burst of confidence falter. How could I be so certain Elaina Munroe wanted to see me? Because she'd asked me to come see her sing? It somehow didn't seem enough, but I understood those were my fears talking to me. I thought about what might happen if I didn't act. What would be worse, always regretting the chance missed, or knowing that Mr. Pellet -- or worse Albert Pane -- might get her instead? For her own good, I had to act. I checked my breath in my cupped hand to ensure it wouldn't offend Elaina if I got close, and suddenly the mere thought of that eventuality made me sick to my stomach in the most wonderfully queasy way. Butterflies so big they must have been birds flitted inside me, and as I opened the door I thought that at that moment I could happily have died from anticipation.
The backstage area of the Nightingale was small -- no more than ten feet wide -- and more like a wooden corridor than a place to wait. The walls were covered in deep scoring that I first took for claw marks before realizing they were people's names carved out for posterity.
"Elaina?" I called, trying to compensate for the waver in my voice, but I heard only the muted chatter of the crowd beyond the scarred walls. I immediately felt the fool. I'd been tricked somehow, lured away while Mr. Pellet rushed Elaina Munroe off to a place somewhere I would never find her. He was no better than Albert, trying to steal from me what was mine, and my anger rose and flooded my thoughts with a painful heat. It consumed my senses, and I found myself lost in a rage, blind and deaf to the world.
Then the sensation passed, and I was frightened by a sound from the other end of the corridor. It was a wet messy retching, coming in waves like gagging sickness. "Elaina?" I could barely contain my excitement. She was there after all. I knew she wouldn't leave me. But why was she sick? Was it stage fright? It made me love her all the more. I sped down the narrow corridor, eager to help her, towards the dressing room door, but before I reached it the noise was strangled off and all I heard was quiet. Only then did I wonder where Mr. Pellet was.
"Elaina? Elaina, it's me. Wesley. Are you all right?"
I heard nothing from beyond the door.
"Elaina?"
The knob twisted slowly, and when it clicked I pushed the door open and was hit in the face with a wall of heat and the overpowering odor of nutmeg. I coughed and blinked away my tears, then stepped inside. I don't know what I expected to find, but I was relieved to see Elaina Munroe, sitting alone in a chair before her makeup table. She was turned away from me, and she was hunched over, but above her scarlet dress I could see the muscles rippling across her back as she made a quiet gurgling noise.
"What's wrong?" I said, rushing to her. "Is everything--?"
I went cold when I saw her.
It looked as though her jaw had unhinged, though I couldn't be sure it wasn't some illusion, and from her gagging mouth slowly emerged some wet and foul-smelling mass that grew with each heave. It looked like -- I couldn't be sure, but I thought it looked like hair. Greyish blonde, it was wrapped around what could only have been crushed bones. The wad looked like the remains of a dead animal, and I could do nothing in my horror but remain rooted to the spot as she disgorged it. Time became elastic, and in my delirium I lost all sense of how long I watched the knotted tangle emerge inch by painful inch. Soon, I saw shreds of green cloth, a distinct plaid pattern I should have immediately recognized but didn't, not until the entire mass fell from Elaina Munroe's gaping mouth and landed on the wooden floor with an unusual dull metallic clunk. A round gold piece dislodged on impact and rolled, stopping at my feet. Without thinking I bent down and picked it up. It was coated with a layer of viscous mucous, and its surface was scrat
ched and scarred beyond recognition. Yet impossibly it was still ticking.
I backed away, my head shaking in abject terror. I couldn't think, couldn’t do more than repeat, "No," over and over again, taking a step backward with each utterance. What I saw was impossible, but no matter how much I tried to reject it I couldn't. When I took my eyes off the pile of meat and bones and hair and clothes that was so familiar I looked at Elaina Munroe truly for the first time and behind her watering eyes I saw something cold and reptilian. She smiled and wiped the pink saliva from her mouth. The appalling spicy stench of what lay at her feet pervading the room.
"I had to make space," she cooed as I retreated. "I want you inside me so much..."
I nearly retched. So many emotions churned and battled inside of me -- both arousal and repulsion -- and the heat of the room made me dizzy despite the empty coldness I felt. I awkwardly started moving backwards toward the open door, keeping her in sight the entire time. She stood and as her long red dress fell against her body I wondered if I'd died and entered some deeper level of Hell. Then carefully and without warning she slipped the strap of her dress off one shoulder, then off the other, and I no longer wondered at all.
"Come to me," she said, raising her arm to beckon, her pale white breast lifting slightly. "Come inside of me."
I'd been walking backwards so long I thought I would go on forever, but what stopped me wasn't a wall, nor was it the door I'd come through. It was larger than that, more solid, and it growled in my ear with a voice so deep it shook my core.
Nightingale Songs Page 11
