Crossings

by Alex Landragin

  Thus, seated before the fireplace in my costume, I meditated upon this turn of events for some time before Giacomo reappeared to announce that dinner was served. He eased me into a chair on wheels and pushed me down a long, sparkling hallway to a dining room where, at opposite ends of a long table, two places were set. ‘Madame Édmonde begs the pardon of monsieur,’ Giacomo said drily. ‘She has been unexpectedly detained and will join monsieur as soon as possible. In the meantime, she begs that you begin dining without delay.’

  I ate, as if I had not eaten in days, all kinds of roasted meats, cheeses and jams, toffees and tarts, washed down with fine wine, coffee and brandy. The dining room was decorated even more garishly than my bedroom – ribbons of gilding on the walls, the ceiling divided into lozenge panels, intricate parquet floor, a marble fireplace, and more camellias in every corner. The windows looked out onto the same courtyard I’d observed from my bedroom, and the walls were almost covered over with fine paintings depicting various maritime and colonial scenes.

  Finally, as I smoked a cigar, Giacomo announced the arrival of Madame Édmonde. He opened the doors at the end of the room and the slender shape of a young woman wearing a sumptuous black dress appeared. Pinned to the crown of thick braids that adorned her head was a veil of dark tulle that masked her face. I tried to stand but a shot of pain in my ankle cut my gallantry short. She approached the table hesitantly, almost shyly. There was a subtle, feline grace about her movements, set to the rustle of the velvet of her dress. She approached until she stood directly before me. ‘Please, monsieur, remain seated,’ she said. Her voice was hushed, as if coming from a much greater distance than where she stood. ‘I am given to understand you are pained, and at any rate, I do not stand for excessive formality.’

  Giacomo helped her into the seat at the opposite end of the table. She asked if I had eaten my fill; I assured her I had, and thanked her for her hospitality. My clothes, she said, were being laundered. I asked after my fob watch. ‘It was shattered,’ she replied. ‘It has been sent to a watchmaker to be repaired.’

  ‘If you will pardon my forwardness, madame,’ I began, ‘but I am brimming with curiosity. Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Madame Édmonde de Bressy.’

  ‘De Bressy . . . Your name is unfamiliar to me.’

  ‘That is of no consequence.’

  ‘Why are you lavishing such generosity upon a complete stranger?’

  ‘You are not a complete stranger.’

  ‘Do we know each other?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘I do not recall having ever met a Madame Édmonde, or even a Mademoiselle Édmonde.’

  ‘That does not alter the fact that we have had occasion to know each other, in a distant past.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘if you reveal your face I will remember.’

  ‘I assure you it will make no difference at all,’ she replied, but all the same she raised her hands to her veil and lifted it, pulling it back over her head, revealing a face that was hideously disfigured, closer in resemblance to the face of a monster encountered in a dream than that of a man or woman. Among the living, the only faces I have seen that could compare are in the daguerreotypes that were fashionable in Paris years ago, and which can still be found from time to time in the stalls of the riverside bouquinistes, depicting the deformed countenances of certain unfortunates residing in the Salpêtrière hospital. It was as if some daemon had pulled her eyes down towards the floor and simultaneously lifted the nose upward and to the right. Her mouth was diagonally distended. The skin of her face appeared to have been ravaged by flames in its lower part, and her chin was inverted. As it was already nearing dusk, she was illuminated by candlelight, and its shadows accentuated the unnatural walnutty crevices of her face.

  I knew not what to say, and a silence as thick as snow descended upon us. It was Madame Édmonde who broke it. ‘You may take every advantage of my hospitality for as long as you wish,’ she said, lowering her veil. ‘You are not a prisoner here. You may come and go. You are welcome to stay as long as you like, to leave whenever you like – now, tomorrow or next week. When you decide to leave, you will be provided with a carriage and driven to your hotel.’ Your hotel, I noted, without interrupting her. She knew far more of me than I of her. ‘If you choose to stay,’ she continued, ‘I will unveil every mystery about myself that you wish. But if you should choose to return to your lodgings tonight, I have only one thing to say to you.’

  ‘And what is that, pray tell?’

  She sat in perfect stillness. Somehow I felt her eyes fixed on me, even though they were hidden behind her veil. ‘Monsieur, listen carefully to what I have to tell you. All the stories Jeanne Duval told you are true – every last one. They were not fantasies. They were not hallucinations. They were not inventions, fabrications or lies. She was no lunatic, hysteric or Scheherazade. She was not a ghost or a ghoul. She was a teller of the truth. And you would do well to heed it.’ With the utmost grace and dignity, Madame Édmonde stood and, bidding me a good night, walked off towards the doorway.

  I was, at first, lost for words, but I managed to blurt out one final question before she disappeared. ‘How is it that you know of this – of Jeanne, of me, of what occurred between us?’

  My host stopped at the threshold of the room, still turned away from me, and replied, ‘I shouldn’t have to explain. You already know.’

  And then she was gone, leaving me to return to my apartment with the help of Giacomo. For all the laudanum I swallowed, I could not sleep that night, but was plunged into a labyrinth of memories that, since my departure from Paris, I’d done my best to forget. Now, they returned with such force that I feared they might consume me altogether.

  The following morning, I was woken by a nightmare. I rang for Giacomo, who once again assisted me to rise from bed, bathe and dress. He pushed me in my chair on wheels to a deserted drawing room and poured me a cup of tea. This room was furnished in mahogany and velvet, and as exuberantly decorated as the dining room of the previous evening. Outside, yesterday’s snow was beginning to melt in the late winter sunshine. I sat in my armchair, sipping my tea, excited by the prospect of seeing Madame Édmonde.

  When she arrived several minutes later, she was, once again, veiled. Her dress was as dark and sumptuous as the previous evening’s. As we bade each other good morning, she sat on an armchair beside mine, still moving with that satin grace I’d noticed before. Giacomo poured her a cup of tea. I noted how her veil was a source of power, for it made it impossible to discern precisely where her gaze was aimed. My desire to observe my host was due not to morbid curiosity but to the fervid meditations of the previous, sleepless night. With that veil, such observation was impossible.

  It was only when Giacomo had retired from the room that she resumed the conversation. ‘Are you feeling better, Monsieur Baudelaire?’

  ‘Decidedly not. I barely slept and can hardly move without the assistance of your manservant.’

  ‘What, pray, was the cause of your insomnia? Is the bed not to your liking?’

  ‘My restlessness had nothing to do with the bed, which is in fact the most comfortable I have ever known. Rather, it was the riddle you posed me yesterday.’

  ‘It was less of a riddle and more a statement of fact.’

  ‘It was a riddle, and I spent the entire night seeking its answer.’

  ‘Then I fear you wasted your time. The riddle is its own answer.’

  I felt a sudden wave of ill temper wash over me, a lifelong habit that has worsened with age. I let it pass before continuing. ‘You said everything Jeanne ever told me was true. Surely not everything?’

  ‘I said all of her stories were true. Jeanne was not incapable of lying, but about certain things her word was her honour.’

  ‘If you know all you claim, you also know how fantastic her stories were.’

  ‘I am aware of their nature.’

  ‘Jeanne believed in the transmigration of souls.�
�

  ‘Yes. She called it crossing.’

  ‘And yet you insist her stories are true.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘You will excuse me if I ask you for proof of your knowledge.’

  Madame Édmonde sighed. ‘Where to begin? Shall I tell you about Koahu and Alula, and how they loved one another? Or about the island of Oaeetee, the chief Otahu and the sage Fetu? Shall I tell you about the Solide, its captain Marchand, the surgeon Roblet and the sailor Joubert?’

  I was in disbelief. ‘What about the albatross? What do you know of that?’

  I had the distinct impression that, with that question, I had managed to launch an arrow of my own through her veil. Her head drooped down. ‘Ah, yes. The albatross. You mean the story of the owl and the tern.’ Her head lifted again.

  I could not hide my astonishment. ‘How is it that you are so familiar with these tales?’

  ‘Oh, Charles, if I tell you, will you not react with your customary disdain?’

  ‘Jeanne’s stories were a child’s fairytales – a lunatic’s delusions!’ I said, thumping an armrest with a clenched fist.

  Madame Édmonde remained perfectly still until she finally said, in almost a whisper, ‘Do you remember the last occasion you saw Jeanne?’

  ‘How can I forget?’

  ‘How many people have you told about it?’

  ‘No one.’ How could I have told anyone? I was too ashamed.

  ‘If I told you, now, would that be sufficient proof?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. I suppose it would.’ And yet I didn’t want to hear.

  ‘You had just awoken from one of your nightmares. Jeanne began to console you, as she had done throughout the years. But that morning you would not be consoled. Her tales had long since ceased to comfort you. And on this occasion you were especially inconsolable.’ Madame Édmonde paused. ‘Do you remember how you responded?’

  I nodded shamefully. ‘Yes,’ I murmured, ‘I’m afraid I do.’

  ‘You lost your temper. You told her she was a hysteric, that you could have her locked up, that if she did not stop her nonsense you would have her committed to the Salpêtrière.’

  I hung my head. It was all true.

  ‘Of course, it wasn’t the first time you’d lost your temper. But this occasion was different, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I groaned. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘And what made it different was that you took out your belt and you began whipping me.’

  I opened my mouth, as if by reflex, to both protest and defend myself, but caught between the two reflexes I could only stammer, unable to find the words for the task.

  ‘You tore the dress from my back, and you whipped me, over and over, until the skin was streaked with blood. And do you remember what you said?’

  ‘No, please don’t . . .’

  ‘You said you were whipping me like the slave I was, like the slave I would always be . . .’

  ‘Enough!’ I cried. Despite my injuries, I sprang from my seat and, cane in hand, limped over to the window that overlooked the courtyard. The pain in my heart now rendered me oblivious to that of my ankle. ‘You want me to believe that you are Jeanne?’ I looked back at her, but no reply emanated from behind the veil. ‘How can such a thing be possible? It contravenes the fundamental laws of nature – of science and physics. I simply cannot accept the notion that the woman who is speaking to me right now was once another woman, one I knew intimately, the woman with whom I shared the best and worst moments of my life. It is utter nonsense – the worst kind of flim-flammery.’

  ‘You who are a poet, do you not see that the power of the crossing is within every human soul? Whenever you look another person in the eyes, do you not feel within the pit of your stomach a kind of forward yearning so powerful that it frightens you? Do we not avert our gazes in polite society precisely because of the vertigo that comes from looking into the eyes of another? And isn’t that vertigo not so much the fear of crossing as the fear of the desire to cross? Are not our souls constantly reaching out towards the other, striving for the freedom of the crossing?’

  ‘And now you dare suggest that this ability, altogether too strange to believe, is available to any poor fool?’

  ‘Yes, it is within us all, only it takes many years of training to undertake it, and many more to master it. It should begin early, as early as possible, as a child learns to walk and speak. Once that moment is past, it is almost impossible to learn. But the potential to cross lies within every single human being.’

  I turned back to face the woman whose voice seemed to be floating to me not from across a room but from across an ocean.

  ‘The knowledge of the crossing has all but disappeared,’ she continued. ‘And yet, in classical times, it was known to many peoples. The myths and legends have survived – all those stories of metamorphosis are vestiges of a time when the practice of crossing was commonplace.’

  ‘Stop, I cannot bear any more of this nonsense!’ I turned away again to regain my composure. ‘Madame Édmonde, my sanity is barely hanging by a thread as it is. Do you wish me to slip into madness once and for all?’

  ‘Charles, you used to call me your Scheherazade. Do you remember what it was that Scheherazade did?’

  ‘She told the king a story every night to stop him from executing her, as he had all his previous brides.’

  ‘The difference between Scheherazade and me is that my stories were not intended to save my life but to save yours. To prepare you for your next crossing.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. I am not afraid of death. In fact, I long for it.’

  ‘Charles, you cannot die. You must return with me.’

  ‘Return where?’

  ‘To the island.’

  At the mention of the word ‘island’, my vision blurred and I felt a hot teardrop inexplicably creep down my cheek. I approached Édmonde and slowly lowered myself down beside her. Her bearing was so still it was impossible to divine what she was feeling behind her veil. ‘Oh, Jeanne,’ I whispered, taking Édmonde’s hand in mine and kissing it, ‘how I have missed you! There is not a day that goes by . . .’

  ‘Charles, please,’ she whispered, withdrawing her hand. ‘I am no longer Jeanne. I am Édmonde.’

  I reached for her veil and lifted it slowly. Before me was revealed that hideous face I’d seen the previous evening. Had an old Flemish master painted the visage of Death itself, he would scarcely have found a better model. Yet I did not feel the revulsion that had taken a hold of me before, but instead detected the stirrings of an old affection.

  ‘I was Jeanne once,’ spoke those blighted, shrivelled lips. ‘I was beautiful once. But I am beautiful no longer. In my ugliness I have discovered my freedom. And now I am offering you yours. I have come to Brussels specifically for this task. I have rented these lodgings with the sole task of finding you and offering you another crossing. Believe me, Charles, believe and trust me. I will arrange another crossing for you. A crossing with someone who is young and strong. Then, together, we will return to the island. And somehow, we will find a way to repair the damage we have done.’

  {206}

  A Suitable Candidate

  HAVING RETURNED TO the Grand Miroir, I did not hear again from Madame Édmonde for some days. This was how she had intended it. ‘Continue your life as before,’ she had impressed upon me as we discussed our plans. ‘Draw as little attention to yourself as possible. Let no one suspect you have had a change of fortune.’ Giacomo gave me my old clothes and shoes back – laundered and mended – and I left the manor as I had entered it, only a little cleaner and plumper.

  Édmonde had taken it upon herself to find a candidate for a crossing. Before we parted, she encouraged me to consider crossing with a young woman, arguing it would be easier to find a suitable candidate. But I was against the idea. What man in his right mind would choose to be a woman?

  My return to the Grand Miroir caused a commotion from the landlord Lepage and his wife. Evident
ly, they’d decided I’d vanished without paying my bills. I gave them twenty francs to ease their worries – Édmonde had given me a little money, advising me to spend it cautiously – but not so much as to raise their suspicions.

  My instructions were strict. In preparation for what was to come, I was to write down everything I knew about the crossing, everything she had told me as well as everything Jeanne had told me. ‘This way, after the next crossing,’ Édmonde had explained, ‘you will have all the proof you need regarding who you are and where you have come from, so that if we should be separated again you need not spend a whole lifetime piecing together the clues scrambled in your nightmares.’ And so, on Édmonde’s fine papier japon, I began writing the story you are reading, beginning with the dinner at Madame Hugo’s and the accident that followed it, my rescue by a stranger, and finally my encounter with Édmonde. I wrote constantly, obsessively, writing and rewriting, as is a poet’s wont, burning the drafts in the stove to prevent the landlady from reading them. In days gone by, I might have protested at the absurdity of the notion of crossing from one body into another, and even now I was assailed by doubts. But passing as I was through the valley of the shadow of death, I surrendered myself completely to it. I was certain that Édmonde’s reminiscences of Jeanne constituted incontrovertible proof that what she was saying, however ludicrous, was true. The chance to live again, in a youthful body, the chance to escape the clutches of penury, insanity and mortality, and perhaps above all the chance to redeem myself for my past failures – all of these taken together added up to a temptation I could not – perhaps even should not – resist.