by F. R. Tallis
Placing a cigarette between my lips, I said, ‘I was on the viewing platform recently. I hadn’t been up there for years, and found myself quite intrigued by the chimeras.’
‘In my humble opinion they are masterpieces.’
‘Especially the winged demon.’
‘Ah yes, the strix. I adore its melancholy expression, don’t you?’
I lit the cigarette. ‘The strix?’
‘A name – of classical provenance – that has become associated with the winged demon because of the artist Charles Méryon. It was he who made the famous etching. You must know it: the winged demon, swooping crows, the tower of Saint Jacques in the background? Why it was that Méryon borrowed a name from Roman mythology is unclear, but in all probability his choice was somewhat arbitrary. He lost his mind and died in an asylum. Father Ranvier corresponded with him but Méryon’s replies were unintelligible.’
Bazile tilted the bottle over his tankard but found it empty. Scuttling off to the kitchen he returned with yet more cider. We continued drinking and talking, but the subject of hell arose again in relation to a theological point, and I found myself speaking intemperately.
‘Can any sin merit such a punishment? If Christian doctrine is correct, and such a place exists, then I must question our trust in absolutes, the reassuring polarities of good and evil, because a god who consigns his errant children to the pit cannot be meaningfully described as benign.’ Looking across the table at Bazile, I saw in his eyes a combination of disapproval and compassion. ‘I’m sorry,’ I added. ‘I have offended you.’
He sighed and said, ‘Perhaps the disappointing result of your experiment has shaken your faith.’
I shook my head. ‘I never had faith. Not really. That is why I sought to prove.’ There was bitterness in my voice. ‘People with faith have no need of evidence.’
Bazile made an ambiguous gesture. ‘Perhaps we have had too much to drink.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, pushing my tankard away.
As I was leaving, Bazile took something from his pocket and held it out for me to take. He tipped a silver cross into the palm of my hand. I was surprised by its weight and Bazile must have noticed. His brow furrowed momentarily before he declared, ‘A small token of friendship. Let it be a reminder – you are always welcome here.’
I thanked him and motioned to leave, but hesitated in order to ask a final question: ‘What does it mean? Strix? You never said.’
‘A strix is a nocturnal bird of ill omen,’ Bazile replied, ‘but one which feeds on human flesh and blood. A kind of vampire, I suppose.’
8
I had promised Thérèse Courbertin that I would never again ask her to leave her husband, and when I made that promise, it was one that I was confident I would keep. But as soon as our meetings were re-established, the urge to issue the same ultimatum returned, perhaps even stronger than before. Even so, I managed to exercise restraint and made an effort to talk to her in much the same way as I had at the very start of our relationship. We talked about events that had transpired during seances she had attended, spirit communication, inexplicable noises and the levitation of objects, the writings of Allan Kardec and many other subjects of esoteric interest. I wondered how she reconciled her spiritual aspirations with an illicit affair but, needless to say, I was not so stupid as to challenge her. What passed as her morality was clearly both idiosyncratic and pliable, a fragile system of values that would not bear the weight of too much scrutiny. It seemed to me, however, that at this particular juncture she was happier than she had been in a long time, insofar as an individual with Thérèse’s constitution, so full of contradictions and prone to episodes of melancholy, could ever be described as happy.
I remember her so clearly, her supple body encased in a tight satin dress, her fur coat, the warm collar of which brushed my cheek as she offered me her neck, the sapphires that hung from her ears and the wisps of blonde hair that escaped from beneath her hat, her gloves, which, when raised to the lips, seemed to be saturated with her essence – the sudden ignition of her eyes and her glistening teeth.
Perhaps as a result of our temporary separation, Thérèse had come to appreciate the special nature of our union, our unique, if somewhat deviant, compatibility.
In order to increase our pleasure I introduced her to morphine, which had become fashionable among certain ladies, principally those who either hosted or frequented salons where stained glass, draped silk and the attendance of artists was obligatory. Medical suppliers were quick to profit from this craze, and small but beautifully finished enamel syringes were soon being manufactured to meet the demand. I was able to obtain a fine example, encrusted with pearls and lapis lazuli. Included in the purchase price was an attractive case made of ebony, with a lining of black velvet. Thérèse was naturally inclined towards experimentation and curious about altered states of consciousness. Moreover, one of her spiritualist acquaintances, a woman who I guessed was eager to associate herself with any new fad, had already acquired an enamel syringe and shown it off to her friends as if it were a new bauble. Under such favourable conditions, the task of persuasion was not very difficult.
Consigning Thérèse to oblivion was such a rare delight: slipping the needle beneath her skin, depressing the plunger and watching her face become serene, her eyelids heavy. After removing the needle, a bead of blood would well up from the puncture, unusually bright and red – like rose petals or rubies – and I would touch the droplet with a trembling finger and surreptitiously transfer it to my tongue. I could not stop myself, for the temptation was too great, and even though later I might reflect on my behaviour and be troubled by its implications, the pleasure of the moment far outweighed all subsequent considerations. There was something singularly appealing about Thérèse’s bouquet, for it was at once both sweeter and more subtle than that of other women. It collected beneath her tresses, where I would bury my head and inhale deeply, and as I thrust myself into her, with savage insistence, her honey-like effusions incited brutality. I wanted to mark her flesh with my nails, but was forbidden to do so, and the frustration that I felt was insufferable.
When our love-making was over – for that, I suppose was what it was – she would curl into a ball and sleep, and I would feast my eyes on the gentle contours of her form, the arc of her back and the regularity of her buttocks. Through her translucent skin, I studied with some fascination the branching pattern of her vessels. I was strangely obsessed by the notion of her interior, and imagined Thérèse transformed into a medical waxwork, with her muscles and ligaments exposed. This exercise did not dampen my passion. Quite the opposite: contemplating her carnality (rump, flank and tenderloin) made her even more desirable. These meditations were increasingly associated with a creeping sense of unease, but I knew that it would pass. The feeling of not being wholly alive would return, and with it, a consoling anaesthesia.
One afternoon I was engaged in my habitual study of Thérèse in post-coital repose. She was sprawled out beside me, like a slumbering goddess, her arms angled either side of her head, one leg bent at the knee, the other extended. The sun was shining and a shaft of light disclosed flecks of gold among the chestnut curls of her pubic delta. I then noticed that the air was full of winking motes, and lazily raised my arm, fingers outstretched, intending to catch a tiny blazing world. My open hand threw a shadow across Thérèse’s chest. I made a movement and was puzzled by a curious phenomenon. The motion of my hand did not correspond precisely with the motion of its shadow. There was a slight delay. I wiggled my fingers to confirm my observation, and as before, the silhouette lagged behind. My professional instincts inclined me towards a neurological interpretation. Perhaps I was witnessing further evidence of damage to my nervous system? But such thinking was automatic and unconvincing. The shadow of my hand, now hovering over Thérèse’s breasts, seemed to have an independent existence, being somewhat displaced from where I had expected it to fall. I abruptly closed my fingers, so hard that they produced a sna
pping sound, and, a fraction of a second later, their shadowy counterparts curled into the compact roundness of a clenched fist. Thérèse’s eyes sprang wide open, the lids rolling back to such an extent that her irises were surrounded by gleaming whiteness. She gasped and clutched at her heart, struggling to draw breath.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. She did not register my presence so I shook her and asked again, ‘Thérèse, what’s the matter?’
Her gaze gradually focused and she replied. ‘It hurts, here.’ She then began massaging her sternum. I took her pulse, which was racing, but there were no other symptoms.
‘Did you have a bad dream?’
‘No.’
‘Then it’s probably just cramp, a spasm of the intercostal muscles. You were asleep and the sudden pain woke you up with a fright.’
‘No.’ She rocked her head from side to side. ‘I wasn’t asleep. It felt like something was touching me,’ she paused before adding, ‘inside.’
I lay down beside her and drew her close. ‘Cramp. That’s all it was. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘But the pain was so . . . bad.’
‘Indeed. Cramps can be very unpleasant.’ I stroked Thérèse’s hair and whispered endearments into her ear, until once again she was asleep, or at least very close to it. The light faded as a cloud drifted in front of the sun, and my thoughts, although troubled, were also strangely excited.
As time wore on, my desire to take complete possession of Thérèse Courbertin – to have her as mine, and mine alone – grew so intense that my thoughts became fevered and my head filled with lurid fantasies. I imagined how it might have been, had we met in different circumstances, another life perhaps, in which Henri and Philippe had never existed, and in which I was free to do with her as I pleased.
There were rare moments when my conscience seemed to revive and protest, and then I would feel authentic emotions once again, self-loathing and disgust at my repellent daydreams. I thought of the nerves that connect the tongue and nose to the brain, and considered how oxygen deprivation might have affected their functioning. And how was it, I wondered, that for me, love and inflicting pain had become so hopelessly confused? I rationalized and rationalized, until, exhausted by an interminable and utterly sterile inner debate, I would fall into a state of torpid indifference.
Thérèse would sometimes say something that suggested the operation of a higher perceptual gift. She seemed to sense a presence in the room; however, her female intuition did not allow her to understand its nature or the extent of its influence and malignancy. On one of these occasions she became uneasy and restless. Wrapping her arms around her body and shivering slightly, she said, ‘I feel like we’re being watched.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I laughed.
‘I never feel like we’re truly alone.’
‘What, do you think the concierge is spying on us? Do you think he peeps through the keyhole?’ She shrugged and I continued, ‘It’s the morphine. It can create false impressions in the mind.’
She nodded, but her expression remained apprehensive.
We usually left the apartment separately, Thérèse first, and I a few minutes later. I did not always go home. More often than not, I went straight to the hospital or wandered the streets, brooding. I had managed to remain silent on the subject of Thérèse’s marriage; I had made no more demands, but my resolve was weakening. Something in the core of my being felt tense and ready to burst.
Shortly before dusk, I found myself on the cobbled path that follows the river Bièvre. The air smelled rank and the surface of the bilgy water was mottled with green scum. Everywhere I looked there was refuse, broken pots, metal drums and heaps of decaying food infested with vermin. Men in flat caps were hanging pelts out to dry over wattle fences: they had just finished skinning animals and the workers’ shirts were rancid. Other menials were unloading leather hides from a cart and throwing them into enormous vats.
I came to a shanty town of huts and beyond these were taller dwellings that seemed to have been constructed by simply piling one hovel on top of another. They leaned across the river towards each other, the upper storeys almost touching and compressing the sky into a fine, luminous strip.
An old woman, dressed in rags, was dangling her feet in the water. She was singing a sentimental ballad and took inebriate liberties with rhythm and pitch. When she heard me coming, she turned abruptly and whined, ‘Charity, monsieur? A few coins, that’s all I ask. I’ll remember you in my prayers.’ Her lips retreated to reveal a few blackened teeth. I walked on without acknowledging her plea and she immediately launched into an abusive tirade. A coughing fit cut short her string of insults.
After choosing a path that led away from the river, I entered a network of alleys that brought me to a dingy street enlivened only by the presence of a tiny cafe. It was getting cold, so I went inside and ordered a brandy from a moribund waiter with a drooping moustache.
The situation was intolerable. It couldn’t go on. One way or another, I would have Thérèse Courbertin all to myself.
When I stepped out onto the street again, a full moon had risen above the rooftops. Looking up at the bright white disc, I felt a gentle heat on my face.
Two weeks later, I happened to be walking past the Courbertins’ apartment, when I was overcome by a strong desire to see Thérèse. My feet began to drag and I found myself rooted to the spot. I knew, at some level, that it was madness to contemplate paying her a visit, but I was not deterred. Indeed, the longer I remained stationary, the more it was that I became determined to pursue what, ordinarily, I would have identified as a reckless course of action. A single thought came to dominate my mind: You shall not be denied. It was curiously resonant, like a spoken command.
I crossed the road and on entering the building asked the concierge for directions. There was something about his expression, his narrowed eyes and jutting jaw, which suggested suspicion; however, whatever doubts he may have harboured regarding my character, he answered, ‘Madame Courbertin? Second floor, first on the left, monsieur.’ I climbed the stairs and, as I neared the top, saw my double, rising and approaching from the opposite direction. A floor to ceiling mirror had been mounted on the landing and the person who confronted me was pale and haggard. I removed my eye-preservers and dropped them into one of my pockets. On the second-floor landing, there was yet another mirror, identical to the first, and once again I stopped, and after further consideration of my appearance removed my hat and combed my hair.
The Courbertins’ apartment was easy to locate. I rang the bell and the door was opened by a fresh-faced maid.
‘I have come to see Madame Courbertin.’
‘Is she expecting you?’ asked the maid.
‘No.’
She raised her eyebrows and waited for some further explanation. Perplexed by my silence, she coughed nervously, and asked, ‘Whom should I announce?’
‘Monsieur Clément,’ I replied.
The maid led me into what appeared to be a waiting room. Like most associate professors, Coubertin saw his private patients at home. I did not sit down, but instead examined a fine dry-point etching of a chateau beside a lake. The apartment was very quiet, although I could hear a muffled exchange taking place not very far away. A carriage clock chimed. The maid reappeared and requested that I follow her into the parlour, where Thérèse had situated herself by the fireplace. I bowed and said, ‘Good afternoon, Madame Courbertin.’
She was wearing a grey dress with a pink blouse, and her hands clutched the edges of a tasselled shawl that she had thrown around her shoulders. I registered the potted plants, the photographs in silver frames, the leather sofas and the upright piano, the trappings and emblems of a comfortable, conventional existence.
‘Monsieur Clément,’ she replied, acknowledging my arrival with a tight smile. Then, addressing the maid, she said, ‘That will be all, Isabelle.’ The maid curtsied and left, but Thérèse waited for the girl’s footsteps to fade before she a
sked, anxiously, ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
I turned my hat over in my hands. ‘Nothing has happened.’
She appeared confused. ‘Then why . . . what are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘What?’ Her features hardened and she glared at me.
‘I wanted to see you,’ I repeated.
‘Dear God,’ she paced up and down in front of the hearth. ‘What are you saying?’ She stopped abruptly and touched her brow. ‘And what . . . what am I going to tell Henri? Have you taken leave of your senses?’
I sighed and said, ‘I know that I shouldn’t be here. But I hope that you will understand, when I say that I had no choice in the matter. I could not act freely. My heart. . .’
She made frantic movements with her hands, beating the air with downward movements while making hushing sounds. ‘Must you speak so loudly?’ Then, taking control of herself, she added with precise emphasis, ‘Please leave.’
I shook my head. ‘We can’t go on like this. I am not prepared to—’
‘Enough!’ Thérèse interrupted. ‘Henri will be returning shortly.’
I took a few steps forward but Thérèse retreated into a corner. Her expression, which had been stern and resolute, suddenly changed, becoming by degrees more uncertain. The colour drained from her face, she began to sway and I thought that she was about to faint. Moving forward, I took her in my arms and whispered to her in low, urgent tones, professing my love and begging her to put an end to our unhappiness. ‘Have courage,’ I said. ‘It is in your power to release us from this wretched existence of secrecy and lies.’ Her eyes glinted like those of a frightened animal and her bosom heaved with emotion. Emboldened by her fragrance I stroked her cheeks and kissed her neck. ‘No, Paul,’ she whimpered. ‘No.’ But I did not stop, even when she tried, weakly, to push me off. I felt invincible, excited by the fact that I was having my way with Courbertin’s wife in Courbertin’s parlour, and it seemed to me that, with every caress, I was demonstrating the insubstantiality of the psychological partition that Thérèse had erected to keep the different areas of her life separate. With every touch, I was forcing her to accept that the dissolution of her marriage was both inevitable and necessary. Courbertin was my inferior in every way. A feeble old man and a third-rate intellect.
