The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror 2012

by Guran, Paula

  I was happy they were gone. I wanted Mlle. Maubusson to myself. No sooner had her father left the room, than I went to work. Along one wall, incongruous against the painted wallpaper, there was a wheeled metal bed of a type that is used in hospitals. I brought it over, and, neglecting my clothes, I lifted Mlle. Maubusson onto the enamel surface. During my dream I had had such a strong impression of her weight in my arms, I felt I must confirm it at the expense of my waistcoat.

  As my host had said, there was no time to be lost. But I had another reason to hurry. The electrodes must be divided, and at least one placed under her clothes, between her labia minora. I had not wanted to perform this operation under her father’s scrutiny, although without it, or the equivalent procedure on my male subjects, I had had no success in the past—so strong in the dead are these bestial urges.

  And as I fumbled under the young lady’s drenched nightgown, I could not but remember the horrifying moment when I had discovered, in the underclothes of Sophie de Noailles, the pearl and sapphire ring I had given her in a past moment of happiness. Anticipating everything I did, she had secreted it there before her death, to mock me and torment me. She knew I would do everything in my power to resuscitate her, if only so that I could beg for her forgiveness.

  An enamel tray hung from the bed-rail, containing an assortment of medical implements. I had pulled apart the second skein of electrodes and was attaching them to Mlle. Maubusson’s cranium, when I heard the roar of the dynamo, outside in the courtyard. I felt the electric thrill in my fingertips, as I was able to manipulate a cage of stimulation over the cerebral hemispheres. This is what Maubusson had already attempted. But at the same time I affixed the posts so as to enclose and affect the hypothalamus and the medulla oblongata, the most primitive portions of the brain. The effect was instantaneous; I felt her body shudder and convulse. Her spine curved like a bow, and her eyes snapped open as I bent over her. Because of the electricity, her lips pulled away from her teeth, and her mottled tongue protruded next to my ear. And she started in at once, in a harsh, breathy whisper—“Oh, I have waited for this moment—do not touch me. You have forfeited the right.”

  “Forgive me,” I murmured next to her ear.

  “I cannot. Instead, I must remember that night when you revealed yourself to me. Monsieur, perhaps it is not possible to know another person, to trust that you have seen into the bottom of his soul. But then at certain moments we reveal ourselves. That night I saw an animal, a creature whose only impulse was violence and desire. What is it that separates men from beasts, can you answer that? And how is it that a woman is expected to continue, once she has finally understood a man she trusted, or might have trusted with her soul? What shall a woman do, once she has seen the truth? For shame, monsieur. Must I remind you of that night, when you would have taken me by force in my father’s house? And I felt I could say nothing, because of your friendship with him, and the money that he owed. Can you blame me for my response, which was to discover an extract of conium—you know where I found it! Ah, how cold I was!”

  Her voice had risen to a shriek. I tried to restrain her, press her down to the enamel surface, but she struggled against me. With one hand, from the enamel tray she grabbed up a pair of scissors, which I had been using to cut pieces of surgical tape. Fearing for my life, I let her go and stumbled away, as she clambered off the bed and stood brandishing the scissors, her eyes wide and staring. But she was held from attacking me by the wires in her hair, connected to the electrical cable that was stretched to its entire length across the room, and which by its weight was pulling her head back, so that the sinews stood out from her neck. Furious, she jabbed at me with the scissors, and when she realized that she couldn’t reach me, with her other hand she ripped the net of wires from her head, and immediately fell lifeless to the floor.

  “Brute,” said Monsieur Maubusson, standing by the door. I had not heard him come in.

  “Animal,” he repeated. “To think I welcomed him into my house. Now I see why he wanted to impede us. Why he ran from us. He was afraid we would discover—”

  “No,” I murmured.

  “And this apothecary,” he continued as he came into the room and collapsed over his daughter’s corpse. “I will hunt him down. I will have him arrested. He must be in a shop near here.”

  “You will not find him,” I murmured.

  “Besides,” I pleaded, after a moment. “You must not trust the literal accuracy of these words. You say yourself they speak in code . . . ”

  “Does this sound like a code to you, monsieur? She told us straight out what has happened. Ah God, ever since her death, this has been my fear. I could have predicted this. And yet I saw no trace of poison, no discarded vial.”

  “These women are devious,” I said. “You cannot trust them. Conium maculatum leaves no trace.”

  No matter what we undertook, we could not rouse her again. Instead, after another hour, we shut down the dynamo for the last time, and then deposed Mlle. Maubusson upon the table. My host picked up the scissors from the floor. “She must have mistaken you for him,” he said. “I can only apologize on her behalf.”

  “She was evidently blind,” I concurred.

  I write this at dawn. Perhaps I can claim a few hours’ sleep, before my train. As I climbed the stairs, I saw my host descend to the front hall, an umbrella in his hand. I hate to think what he intends.

  (From the private diary of Philippe Delorme, May 24th)

  4. “ . . . a congenital defect . . . ”

  Q: You understand what I am saying to you?

  A: Yes, monsieur. Although I cannot speak English to my satisfaction, I can understand perfectly well.

  Q: Good. How long have you worked for Mr. Maubusson?

  A: Seven years.

  Q: Good. Will you explain in your own words what happened on the morning of the 24th of May—that is, on Tuesday of last week?

  A: What happened?

  Q: I’m talking about Dr. Delorme.

  A: Well, I brought him coffee in the morning. There was a break in the weather, and my master had already gone out. This was perhaps at eight o’clock. Professor Delorme was agitated, and complained of a small fever. He told me he must take a carriage to the station, and so then I must inform him that the tracks were somewhat underwater between here and Jackson. You remember that morning—there was no steamship also, because the river was so high. Beyond St. Claude Avenue, the streets were all in flood.

  Q: Delorme was a white man? What did he say?

  A: Well, he was agitated, as I tell you. He said he would verify this information as he could.

  Q: And Mr. Maubusson?

  A: He was already gone, as I have said. I had no idea, yet, of the tragedy. And I must tell you, it was unnecessary. Mlle. Maubusson, she had a heart defect, it was well known. There was no mystery—she had a congenital defect, like her mother. But my master couldn’t accept it. He was so distracted in his grief. He could not see what was before his face. He must persuade himself of something different, or else make himself to be persuaded. It was Delorme that must have accomplished this, I don’t know why. But I must blame him. Monsieur Lockett and my master, until that night they were together in all things.

  Q: A heart defect. You’re a doctor, are you?

  A: No, sir.

  Q: No medical training?

  A: No.

  Q: No. Where were you born? Santo Domingo, isn’t it? Tell me what Delorme did then.

  A. He left his luggage and went out. It is still upstairs. He inquired from me after a girl, whom he had seen in the street the night before. A local girl, whom I recognized from his description. But he did not understand. He thought she was a woman of the town. But this was not the place, so close to St. Roch’s church—it was not possible. I gave him the address. I told him, “Oh, so you will get your fortune read?” But he did not understand. He was a bad man, I think. He looked for another meaning, because he was desperate for this woman, even so early in the morning
. . .

  (From the police deposition of Prosper Charrière, May 30th)

  5. “Vous cherchez quelque chose?”

  Ladies and gentlemen, are you looking for something or someone who is lost and cannot be found? Are you looking for the answers to your secret questions? Is there a man or woman, whose heart you must unlock? Perhaps there is a man who languishes in prison, falsely or else rightfully accused. Madame Semiramis will help, employing all the latest scientific instruments. Follow these signs to her address . . .

  (Posted in the Rue Royale, earlier that week)

  6. Post-script.

  . . . And one more thing, my God. An hour’s sleep without rest, buffeted by dreams. You stand before me in your same black beaded dress, bloodless and pale. When you touch me I can measure in your body’s temperature the effect of the conium, which you discovered in my laboratory. And when you kneel down to unbutton me, where I once might have joyfully supposed you had been taught by nature alone, now I can perceive the course of your instruction in a brothel of dead souls, and a malign efficiency which gives me no pleasure or relaxation, but rather the reverse. I left France to avoid these dreams, but they have followed me. Where can I go to find relief?

  (From the private diary of Philippe Delorme, May 24th, eight o’clock)

  7. Of possible significance: An interview with Marie Louise Glaspion, in the infirmary of the Ursuline Convent, Charters Street, August 10th, 1936.

  . . . I understand why you have come. You want to ask me about Madame Semiramis, how I left her house. Isn’t that right?

  Even last year I would have told you nothing. But now you see me lying here too weak to raise my head, connected by this tube to this machine.

  For some weeks now I have understood that I am dying. I have treated many others through this same infection of the lung, especially this summer, because of my work here with the sisters. But that is not the only reason.

  Many years I have denied this, though by now I am too tired to continue: I still have the gift, which I inherited from my mother and have tried to turn to God’s purposes. When it refers to that night, my gift is where it starts, because of those two men that I saw arguing in the Rue Dauphine, when I was late returning to my mother’s house. The older one, he stood at the abyss. The snake was out upon his temple, as we used to say, and of course in the next days his name was in the papers, because he had been shot by some American.

  Always one pauses, wondering to intervene, but how could I? What intervention could be made? I was only a girl, not yet fifteen years old. Besides, it was the younger man who stared at me with such hostility, because he thought I was a prostitute selling my body in an alleyway. In those days I was full of pride, not like now.

  That was the night of a big storm. In the morning the streets were flooded in the Third District, not yet where I was, but toward the Rue Claibourne. So long ago! But I was soaked when I got home, and my mother scolded me. She was with some customers around the fire, although it was almost midnight. The rain fell though the roof into some pots. She had killed the cock.

  What came to disgust me finally were the images of saints around the altar, St. Roch and St. John especially, together with the devil’s images from Saint Domingue. But in those days I saw this as normal. Maman told me to dry myself beside the fire, and I hated that also, because of the eyes of the customers, even though I knew full well that this was part of why they came, part of the devil’s net, part of that nonsense with Damboolah and Bamboolah and these things, my mother knew it too. It was she who stripped the wet scarf from my throat.

  Will you give me some water, please? Thank you. You see I am too weak to pour a glass. Oh, you must not spill water on your microphone. Bring it close. I will speak to it as if it were a priest—I was astonished to see that same man the next morning, the one who had watched me in the Rue Dauphine, a gentleman of color, but light-skinned. Gray eyes. The rain had stopped for a moment. A humid wind chased the clouds over the rooftops, away toward the river. He came in drunk out of the street, stinking of tafia. I was sweeping with the wet broom, my sleeves rolled up. I thought my mother was still asleep behind the curtain. But this fellow scarcely spoke a greeting. He took me by surprise. He backed me up against the wall before I could resist. He was begging for pity. I’d heard that from a man before! I screamed, and then my mother was there, and he released me. She was a tall woman with a powerful eye, dressed in her robe, and with her long hair bound up. “Forgive me,” he protested.

  She saw from his fine clothes that he had money. “I am Semiramis, Queen of Babylon,” she said, which was her usual nonsense in those days. I was breathless in a corner, and monsieur was in tears. Maman could see immediately that he was ill, because she began to assemble from her shelf of jars one of her nostrums. I see now, after years of training in this infirmary, how harmful this was. I believe now that she might have poisoned many customers over the years, but in those days I thought it only foolishness, as I saw her prepare a sachet of goufre dust and pepper, because of the man’s fever. His eyes shone. My mother lit the altar candles, and then closed the shutters and the door into the yard.

  “Monsieur,” she said, “someone is haunting you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this person is a woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she disturbs your rest.”

  “Yes.”

  She said this to every man, and it was always so. She had placed him in an armchair, and put a stool under his boots. Then she sat down beside him to take his pulse, and put a damp cloth over his brow. Nor did he pull away from her, because he was desperate to be comforted, and in spite of my past fear I looked at him, a gentleman not yet thirty-five, with good teeth and hair.

  “Shall we ask her what she wants? But monsieur, please tell me. Must we search for her among the living or the dead?”

  His expression was desolate. Maman gave a signal, and I went to the altar to light a pyramid of incense and then wash my hands.

  Will you hand me my rosary, there from the table? Thank you. It is not a serpent! It won’t bite you! I can see you are a skeptical person, as I was in my naiveté. But this Voodoo conjuring was not a matter of an error, or harmless tricks, or the waste that comes from believing something that is not so. But it is an opposing force. Not to believe, it is a kind of innocence. Now I think my faith commenced that day, the faith that brings me to this white bed. Before I was unable to distinguish, because I loved my mother, who jumbled them together, good and bad, sin and love. But this is our work on earth, to separate these things.

  Now it began raining again, first gently, and then making spots on the dirt floor. I heard the thunder in the direction of St. Roch. Superstitious, I touched the crucifix around my neck, while my mother began to croon her language, most of it entirely invented out of nonsense words. Though I had heard these things before, and though they could not fail to embarrass me, still I was impressed to see her in her blue, flowered robe tied with a crimson sash, her thick hair knotted up. She was a tall woman, taller than I. She stood with her hand on monsieur’s forehead, while he stared up at her. An educated man, doubtless he was not convinced by her mumbo-jumbo, and at the same time he might have realized he was in a dangerous position, closed up in a poor woman’s cottage. I saw him glance toward the door. At the same time I was fumbling through my mother’s wooden chest, and laying out on the altar her scientific implements, as she called them, her beakers and alembics for distilling her love potions, her hypodermic syringes, her fortune cards and tablets for automatic writing. If these things reassured monsieur, he gave no sign. “She is very near,” my mother said. “I feel her wanting to come in,” words I had heard before.

  Often on these occasions she would contort her face, and the voice of the spirit would slip between her clenched lips in a whisper, easy to misunderstand. That morning I was surprised all this had progressed so quickly. Usually my mother would sit to ask some questions, gaining confidences that she then would giv
e back, though nothing that might shock someone, for her purpose was always to console or reassure. These phrases that she used were very bland. But now monsieur had not yet been a quarter of an hour in the house. And it really was as if something was desperate to get in. I could hear the shutters rattle in the wind. My mother’s transformation was so violent and abrupt I was astonished. I dropped the vial in my hand and watched it shatter on the hearth, between the enormous bags of charcoal that my father sometimes brought. She did not stop to scold me. Her eyes were turned back in her head. When she spoke, it was in a type of language different from the patois I had always heard from her, a woman who could not write her name. In a moment she had the accent of the Creoles sent to Paris for their education. “Oh, monsieur, I felt I could say anything, show you my secret self. Perhaps it even gave me pleasure to think of you as a more natural man, less civilized than others I had met, because of your heritage. But civilization has its uses, of which self-restraint is the most prominent—too late I see that now. When I stumbled back and collapsed on the settee, at that moment you mistook my hesitation for surrender! I can never forgive you for misjudging me. And even if it took me less than a minute to recover my strength, so that I was able to strike you in that area, the source of all your urges, still it was enough. A second would have been enough! It is in our impulses that we betray each other and ourselves. Our actions are pale shadows, chasing afterward. Besides, did you think it was impossible for me to have found out, that you had come that evening from Mme. Baziat’s house? Did you think I would not smell her perfume on your breath, while you were kissing me?”

  “I had had a . . . glass of wine,” faltered monsieur. His cravat had come undone. My mother stood over him with his hand on his forehead, pushing him back into his chair.

  Even when she beat me, I had never seen her in a rage like this, a mixture of ice and flame. “Do you think I am interested in your excuses? You betrayed me.”

  “But I never—”