PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  CHAPTER III: THE EMPTY MASK

  Summer

  AT FIRST, IT APPEARED that Alatiel’s presence inspired Daniele to ever-greater heights of artistry. Whereas his painting once paled in comparison to Julian Paradine’s superb albeit saccharine work, now the Italian surpassed his friend’s abilities completely. Daniele’s pictures had always been rather rough and wanting in technique but his admirers overlooked this, his romantic soul implied by every brushstroke; as people often say of inferior musicians, he had ‘great expression’.

  His peers soon claimed that, no matter who sat for him, his subjects wore the mask of Alatiel in some fashion. Before long, he refused even these few patrons. His acquaintances were likewise forbidden to visit; my brother returned home, his shirt torn and blood-stained, after an attempted intrusion into the studio. Daniele severed the bond of their friendship with a knife.

  He posed Alatiel against a Scaean backdrop; captured her in the briar wood; laid her to rest in a Capulet tomb. When she played the late Ophelia perfectly, his admiration knew no bounds. Yet Daniele’s devotion was such a flimsy thing, truth be told. It is, I propose, a defining characteristic of the Romantic male: this yearning for an idealised love, and its counterpoint of base desires and the crudest of appetites. Naturally, such a passionate man could never be faithful to those he worshipped above all others . . . even as he sketched Alatiel’s flawless face time and again, he patronised the streetwalkers and shopgirls as he always had.

  He declared that he would no longer exhibit or sell his paintings—not that there was great demand for them anyway. Instead, he hid the canvases away from those who could not understand the very personal mythology he had created for Alatiel. None of us knew where she had really come from, and, of course, she could not say. It may be that even Julian Paradine was deceived about her origins or perhaps had simply lied. She seemed out of place, out of time, and indeed, that is exactly how Daniele imagined her.

  She led a charmed life in his mind, his lucid dreams, quite aside from any real life of her own. To him, his fair-weather devotion and her response to such were merely bittersweet moments in some imagined ritual of Courtly Love. Daniele’s Lady was, he felt, both his possession and an unattainable prize. He could not know that she only considered him as prey.

  Daniele’s love soon passed into lust—he longed to unveil his goddess and revelled in daydreams far removed from the chaste delicacy of his Apollo and Diana paintings. He began to go through the motions of what had once been his sole passion, the art in which he endeavoured to find his true self.

  I can see him now, such is the undesired curse of knowledge Alatiel has bestowed on me: Daniele’s elegant hands etching the lines and curves of her body until he knew them by heart, if not by sensation. Sometimes he would neglect his work and simply stare into her eyes, she into his, until candlelight yielded to the morning sun. More often, and with greater insistence, Daniele begged and bullied her to succumb to his caresses. In the final, dying hours of September, she acquiesced, and thereby he lost his soul.

  Their lovemaking was the union of kindred spirits, but this phrase belies the soullessness of their ‘passion’. Though I am ignorant of such things, and formerly had only the insight granted to me by risqué novels, I am certain that their intercourse was something terrible. At least, it was for Daniele.

  I assumed that making love was, at the very least, an expression of passion, of life—an entirely blissful and natural act. But this was different; it was close to death. Alatiel barely stirred, and her eyes were shut fast. Even her mouth remained static, though a sneer suggested itself with a certain down-turning of the lips.

  She would not be moved—in any sense of that word—and, at last, Daniele recognised the emptiness of the desire which had driven him half-mad. He looked away from her, and, if he could have turned away from himself at that moment, he would have done so. They were indeed kindred souls; the best and worst of him had met its match in Alatiel.

  As Daniele lost all sense of time, the days and nights became as months to him. Alatiel seemed to sicken. Her skin grew sallow; her limbs, sticklike. Daniele soon tired of the invalid and often left her alone, for hours; she could not cry out for him, of course, but her eyes spoke of her hatred.

  One rain-swept evening, he discovered her in great and silent agony, and so he rushed out into the street in a frantic search for a doctor. None could be found at that hour. Daniele, soaked to the bone, returned home in despair.

  He pushed open the bedroom door. Alatiel, her heavy-lidded eyes shut fast and her body quite still, held in her withered arms a small bundle swathed in a blanket. But Daniele’s gaze was drawn to the knife lying by her side; in the haze, the blade gave off no reflection, even by moonlight. Something dark had stained the metal. Now, as he looked again at Alatiel, he saw a thin vein of black liquid drip from gritted teeth to her neck. He called her name, shook her gently, but in vain; she was dead.

  Daniele removed his hand from her body and, in seconds, his sadness began to fade. Somewhere within his rapid and confused thoughts, the refrain grew ever louder: at least I have the child . . .

  He snatched the bundle away from her. No breathing or weeping could be heard, so he peeled back each corner of the cloth with desperate speed. A frown grew more pronounced on his face as every turn of the fabric presented nothing, until the last threadbare layer revealed a human tongue, its coarse roots severed and bloody.

  He cried out and dropped the blanket. Finally, he took his head in his hands and sank to the floor.

  When he recovered himself, he lifted Alatiel’s body from the bed and staggered out into the night. Daniele had decided to save himself from scandal and the ruin of his reputation. He wept as he buried her, but he might as well have buried himself.

  There would be no rest in the days ahead. In the brief moments of sleep which his anxiety allowed him, he dreamt of her silent screaming as she recognised her untimely fate, her fingers reaching for his through the leaden soil. He woke, and knew what he must do.

  Their hands met as he scraped away the last layer of dirt from Alatiel’s body. They were doll’s hands, he thought, the fingers pale and still. He cradled her in his arms, rocking her gently to and fro, as one would a child, and sobbed with abandon when her amber eyes opened again. His own were closed in ecstasy when she ran her blade along his neck.

  Alatiel, refreshed by the flow of crimson upon her dry hands, gazed in wonder as the skeins ran slowly along her skin, tracing the lines of her veins. She turned her arms about, taking pleasure in the twisted dance of Daniele’s blood. She walked from the grave, satisfied with her work.

  We, Daniele’s neglected and sorrowful friends, found him a week later. In our innocence, we believed he had cut his own throat. As for his elusive Lady, no trace could be found, nothing indicative of Alatiel’s recent presence in the studio. Curiously, not a single finished portrait of her remained, only a ‘study’: the faint outline of a face surrounding emptiness.

  CHAPTER IV: THE TELLING OF A GHOST STORY

  TWO MONTHS AFTER JULIAN PARADINE had introduced us to his latest Muse, Matthew and I were at home in Calsmere Square. I looked up to see him standing at my bedroom door, gazing listlessly at me as I lay reading. He appeared preoccupied, restless somehow. I intuited that he wasn’t really seeking conversation, only a moment’s distraction from his thoughts. It is true that hindsight informs me here, but even then I could tell his spirits were low. I had heard that Matthew tried to call on poor Daniele several times, but my brother’s friendship was unwanted, his company shunned. Such was the ill-feeling between the two, their bond was broken, perhaps forever.

  Matthew stayed in his room more often, and on the previous occasion I saw him, he stated that his painting possessed entirely new qualities and he had never ‘done finer work.’ I hesitated to wonder about these ‘new qualities’. Over his shoulder, I noticed the floor was littered with discarded scraps of paper. He quickly moved to block my view, although nothing coul
d be seen clearly from such a vantage point. I suspected that he had found or imagined his ideal, and was struggling to capture her essence in his art; he had sketched a familiar profile on the margin of several pages. The thought came to me in a moment—I resisted, but it would not be so easily cast into a backroom of my mind: could Alatiel be Matthew’s beloved? Perhaps Daniele had not been the one he wished to visit . . . .

  Now, as he lingered at my door, I spoke, simply to break the silence.

  “I am writing a scandalous novel, as every young lady should,” I said, in order to amuse him.

  He laughed, or rather, he expelled a little air from his nose.

  “The next time I meet my friends, perhaps you should stay here and knit, or sew, or whatever it is young ladies are supposed to do.”

  I pouted and made my foot strike the bed. At least I had coaxed a reluctant, fleeting smile from my brother.

  “They are my friends too. Except for Callum Flynn.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s harmless enough. What are you writing?”

  “A ghost story.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Very well. Alexandre and Aliénor are in love but her wealthy father forbids the young woman to see the poor artist—the scandal would outrage his business associates and delight his many enemies. In despair, they take their lives so they can be together eternally. It’s so sad . . . now they are spirits, their forms drift within the wind, calling out but in vain. They can no longer hear or see one another . . . and so the two lovers are destined to haunt the same lonely forest where they died, but apart for all time, and that is the real tragedy. I confess—”

  Matthew’s smile faded in an instant. “What charming nonsense. And what is the moral of this tale of woe? That we should all be content to live out our days under the rule of society’s hypocrites? If I could not have love, I would welcome death . . . welcome it.”

  I attempted to hide my disquiet at his change of temper and looked away, pretending to study the text once more.

  “Those are not my words, dear brother, nor are they my true thoughts; I was simply telling you the story. You know I only wish for your happiness.”

  My words were wasted, as he had already left. I laid my head upon a pillow and tried to keep myself from weeping.

  I began to absent myself from home more and more, thus avoiding Matthew’s strange, shifting moods. On one of my joyless outings, I caught sight of Julian Paradine at Lady Forsyth’s salon. I waved from a distance, then swiftly lowered my hand as two elderly ladies stared in evident disapproval. They turned away and continued to pester a thoroughly bewildered foreign person—a musician or an artist, perhaps. Lady Forsyth cared nothing for mere talent, only for exotica; the man appeared to be one of her conversation pieces.

  I knew I had caught Julian’s eye but, to my shame, he ignored me. His right hand held a thin, dark cigarette which he waved around and around his head as he spoke to two disreputable-looking characters. His relentless, conceited talk drowned out the music, and for once I was appalled—he seemed to have changed so much, and not for the better. I resolved to see him privately—at home, so to speak.

  The following afternoon I spent an awkward half-hour walking the street opposite the studio while I decided whether to return to Calsmere Square or risk disgrace. Happily, Rufus Howard the art dealer stepped out of a hansom and stood outside the door; sensing my chance, I engaged the gentleman in polite small talk and daintily took his arm.

  Mr Howard was not one to stand on ceremony; he brushed past the young maid—who, disconcertingly, tearily beseeched us to turn back—and led me to a spacious room which had evidently been neglected of late. One could tell, even in its present ramshackle condition, that Julian had formerly created a ‘honeypot’ to draw in potential patrons and impress those who would ordinarily look down on any artist, no matter how gifted. But now there was an air of desolation about the place, confirmed by the torn drapes and haphazard positioning of what was once fine furniture.

  The source of this misery perched provocatively upon a gaudy throne-like chair which seemed to engulf her; the scene resembled a child usurping an adult’s dinner place. Alatiel—for I knew it was she by the slenderness of her physique—leant back as if suddenly weary, her long fingers hanging over the edge of the seat.

  Curiously, she wore a tall and tapering white hat, and Julian had draped her in gauze, as though she were terribly injured, or perhaps, embalmed. I had long been accustomed to my artist friends and the Medieval or Romantic themes which inspired their work, but nevertheless I became anxious; the ‘throne’ put me in mind of Elizabeth Paradine, baleful disturber of my sleeping hours. As Alatiel removed the thin strip of fabric which obstructed her sight, my fear increased until I could no longer trust myself to see or think clearly.

  The dressing now appeared to me as a shroud, and she, a revenant. I fancied I saw no flesh surrounding her yellow eyes; Callum Flynn’s words—‘a single strand of darkness’—only reinforced this strange vision of mine. I was relieved when the still atmosphere was disturbed as Mr Howard stepped briskly forward to address Julian and his muse.

  As he began to speak, Alatiel’s fingernails lightly drummed the carved armrests in impatience, as if mimicking or paying homage to the source of my nightmares.

  “Well, I must say, Paradine . . . I really must advise you to—”

  The elder man’s lecture halted the second that Julian, his once-handsome face stained with dirt and lines of weariness, turned to fix him with a look of undisguised contempt.

  “Leave us,” Julian hissed.

  I was about to speak, if only to distract the two of them, when Alatiel raised herself and began to peel away the cloth from her upper body with a slow, exaggerated deliberation. Her bosom would soon be exposed to all but she made no move to preserve her dignity and her eyes remained fast upon Rufus Howard. His face coloured immediately, but he did not look away. Alatiel’s childlike smile grew into one of knowing, of seduction, of ageless corruption. You may believe this was a mere fancy of mine, if it affords you some comfort; however, I know what I saw.

  Julian stood tall, as if he were proud, his back facing a large canvas depicting a public execution. Now, I understood what inspired Alatiel’s curious costume; Julian had fashioned her as a victim of the Inquisition, obliged to wear the coroza and make a show of penitence before her burning. But the picture before us presented the heretic triumphant over her wretched peers—the fierce flames turned away from her body and licked at the faces of those who huddled together at the foot of the pyre. These wild-eyed and lustful voyeurs Julian had painted in the likenesses of his friends and patrons. Even as the fire coursed towards the crowd, they remained still, their gaze fixed upon the bound form of the godless creature who loomed over them; the very same monstrous idol who now viewed our dismay with satisfaction.

  Julian seemed disappointed in us, as though our blanched faces offended him. As he attempted to push us from the room, Alatiel strode to his side. She appeared to be naked now, the pale gauze becoming ever more transparent, and this revelation only increased my desperate desire to be gone from this place. I could clearly see the bones of her thin legs and the jutting edges of the hips whose motion threatened to tear through the fabric. Her lower body seemed sexless, the tone of her flesh unnatural and more reminiscent of rosé champagne than anything real. Alatiel and her familiar need not have assaulted me; I left them trailing in my wake. I did not care to look behind me as I ran; I felt their presence at my shoulder as it was.

  Within a half-hour, I was home. Out of breath and nearly out of mind, I collapsed and slept for hours, days—I know not which—until the cold gleam of stark moonlight awakened me. I made my way upstairs and, eventually, forced my way into my brother’s bedroom, having had no response to my calls and pleas for access. I did not know it at the time, but that very same night Matthew had received Alatiel and ushered her to his room—he had indeed welcomed Death.

  Matthew was nowh
ere to be seen. The creature rested upon his bed, face-down and deathly still. I was wary of disturbing her, as then I might have to look upon her face, but curiosity tempted me. Despite myself, I started to unwind a loose strip of cloth from her outstretched left arm. All I found within was emptiness, darkness; no human hand or living skin. An insane thought reared, spectre-like and uncanny, before my mind: had Julian’s supposed benefactor Cristian Salazar somehow painted Alatiel into existence?

  As I pondered on my next action, I observed that Alatiel’s body was surrounded by countless sketches. She might have been a water nymph, asleep on an outsized lily pad, its natural pallor withered by the attention of a merciless sun. Or perhaps the image of a leech—glutted, contented, at timeless ease—came to mind more readily.

  A subtle noise, almost a sigh, made me turn away from the she-devil. The rough blanket which had concealed Matthew’s latest picture had slipped from the easel to the floor. I had anticipated a painting of Alatiel, in one of her many guises, but instead my brother had composed a self-portrait, a dreadful thing to behold. He looked desperate, his widened eyes beseeched me to rescue him. One could not see the full span of his fingers, as his hands groped beyond the edge of the canvas; it was as if he had reached out and tried to escape, but he no longer had a place in this world. He was lost to me, perhaps forever.

  I could restrain myself no longer, and moved to assault Alatiel. Yet my hand passed through her head, and I felt the cold, fresh paint on the paper beneath it. Her mouth opened slowly but a hoarse grunting was the only sound to escape. I saw within and without her: the mouth, bereft of bloom, lined white flesh merely; the inside of her throat, entirely black, the colour of mourning, the colour of night.

  In mental torment, I cried out weakly and began to falter. As consciousness seeped away, I fell against Alatiel, whose form shimmered like a body of water disturbed. She returned to her position of repose; in death or sleep, I know not which. I am unsure if she sleeps as humans do, but if she dreams, the dreams belong to others . . . .