Crossings

by Alex Landragin

  I settled back into my hermetic life. I spent my days in bed, writing. After a few days, I began to fear I would never hear from Édmonde again. I considered returning to the manor where she’d lodged me, but I realised I had no idea of how to find it on my own. When her letter finally arrived, more than a week after we’d parted, it was on plain paper, with no letterhead or return address. The envelope appeared to have been tampered with, as if opened with the aid of steam and resealed. The landlord, I suspected, hoping to find money inside. Édmonde had thought of this: we’d agreed to write to each other in a kind of code, impenetrable to outsiders.

  Dear Charles, her note read,

  Forgive me that this letter has taken rather longer to reach you than I would have wished. I am making every effort to find the person matching your description. Even under normal circumstances, arranging such a meeting would prove troublesome, but my physiognomic impediment only adds to the difficulty. You asked me to find an able-bodied youth with literary talent. I have made my tour of the city’s universities and seminaries and have unearthed no such personage. I shall now venture further out, into the provinces and towns, and shall write to you as soon as I have found a candidate. Please remain patient and hopeful. Yours, etc.

  Three days later, Édmonde’s next missive arrived. It, too, betrayed signs of having been opened illicitly. Take the nine o’clock train to Charleroi on Tuesday. I will meet you there.

  Standing beside the ticket counter at the village railway station, Édmonde, veiled as always, appeared to be the dark centre of the revolving world, impervious to the noisy, smoky hubbub that overtakes a railway station in the moments after a train’s arrival. But when she spotted me limping towards her (I was still walking with a cane), she sprang into action. She took me by the arm and led me outside, through the clatter of horses, buggies and drivers, to the village coffee house. ‘His name is Fernand Roux,’ she said. ‘He is exactly what you asked for – young, educated, from a family of clerics. He is healthy, afflicted neither by the pox nor by consumption. And he is a seminarian. After his ordination, he wants to travel to the colonies to convert the natives.’

  ‘What does he know of our intent?’

  ‘Only that your soul needs saving,’ she replied. ‘Which is not untrue.’ We entered the coffee house. Édmonde looked about a moment and, still gripping my forearm, started off in the direction of a young man sitting alone at a wooden table. The youth was so gaunt and angular in appearance he reminded me less of a man and more of a praying mantis, with a wispy beard and longish hair carefully arranged to fall over one eye. On account of his unusual height, he had adopted a permanent stooped posture and seemed to be folded into his chair rather than seated upon it. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Roux. Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Monsieur Baudelaire.’

  Roux stood and suddenly towered above me. My eyes reached only his shoulders. We bowed our heads and shook hands. His was clammy and insipid. There was a heavy pause for a moment as I found my kerchief and wiped the hand the seminarian had just held. ‘Madame Édmonde tells me you are in need of spiritual counsel,’ the young man finally said, in a high, nasally voice that, I suspected, was intended to sound urbane.

  ‘Quite,’ I replied, and we fell back into an involuntary silence. I looked helplessly across to my co-conspirator but, as her face was veiled, found no clue of how to proceed. ‘And you are pursuing religious studies?’

  ‘Why, certainly, I am resolved to serve God’s mission in the tropics – life among the savages of the Congo, saving the souls of the cannibals, bringing them into the light of Christ and so forth.’ He began to describe to me, in a pinched, precious tone, the righteous future that lay before him. The impression his discourse made was not so much of vocation but of vanity, and yet he was completely unaware of his effect. As I listened to him, I began to consider the possibility of inhabiting that elongated body, of speaking in that whine, of using those spindly, spidery fingers for every task, of stooping my head every time I had to pass through a door. The thought of it was not a pleasant one. Would I, in the new body, comb my hair the same way? Would I speak with the same insufferable tone? If I retained no memory of my previous existences, and I entered such a body, what kind of fate was it that I was condemning myself to? He, in turn, was completely unaware of the fate that would befall him, were we to execute our designs. He would cross into my body, which teetered on the edge of permanent decrepitude. Such a fate was hardly better than mine. The thought of crossing with the seminarian seemed suddenly obscene.

  ‘Charles?’ I heard Édmonde’s voice. The youth had stopped talking and must have asked me a question, which, lost as I was in my meditations, I had not heard. I affected a toothache and begged my leave.

  When Madame Édmonde joined me outside moments later, I was leaning against the wall of the coffee house, deeply troubled. Once more she took me by the arm and we began walking back in the direction of the railway station. ‘What is the matter, Charles? Are you displeased with the fruit of my labours?’

  ‘The man is a simpleton, there’s no question about it. The thought of a life in that body is unbearable. But there are other considerations: if we were to cross, his soul would die in the misery of my body and, as contemptible as he is, I cannot consent to that, especially if it were to happen without his knowing it. It would feel too much like theft. I would rather undertake no crossing at all, and die and be done with it.’

  We entered the station’s waiting room and Édmonde helped ease me onto a seat. ‘Charles, you stipulated a man, and not just any man, but a healthy, educated man. Can you conceive how difficult it is to persuade such a person to take seriously the idea that a crossing might be possible? And even if it were done, to then convince him to give his body away, especially for one that is ill and frail? There is not a man in all of Europe who would agree to such a thing.’ Even from behind her veil, I could sense Édmonde’s ire radiating from her. ‘If you are now insisting that you will only cross with someone knowingly, you have made my task almost impossible. For who will believe such a story? It took you more than twenty years to believe me.’

  ‘I cannot agree to it.’

  ‘Very well,’ Édmonde sighed, ‘I will find someone who wishes for death. But Charles, I beseech you, the streets abound with young women in despair, women whose circumstances are so straitened that to them death seems preferable to life. Think on it.’

  We parted in disagreement.

  On my return voyage to Brussels that same evening, I was at first alone in my compartment. With Édmonde’s words still ringing in my ears, the pain of my neuralgia flared as never before. I swallowed an entire bottle of laudanum to dull the aches and entered into euphoric somnolence. When the train stopped at Genappe, two young women entered the compartment. They appeared to be sisters. Upon their entrance, they greeted me by saying, in French, ‘Good evening, Father.’ It was not the first time in my life I had been mistaken for a man of the cloth, no doubt on account of my gloomy visage and dark vestments. The two demoiselles sat opposite me and retreated into each other, speaking Flemish. Because I was invisible to them, they were behaving quite naturally. I watched them discreetly, so as not to diminish the spontaneity of their comportment. I sat so that I appeared to be looking out the window at the passing pastures, but as it was dark there was little to see, other than the reflection of the illuminated interior of the compartment. I fixed my attention on the reflection of the two women in the glass and listened to that strange language, which always reminded me of the gurgling of a stream. I studied their femininity – their voices, their movements, the clothes they wore, the intimacy they enjoyed. Surrounded by women every day, I have nonetheless never ceased to be astonished by their strangeness. What is it like, I wondered, to be a woman? What is it like to be able to conceive life? I’d always flattered myself that, as a literary man, I had the imaginative wherewithal to answer the question poetically – and that poetry was my only available means of answering the question. But co
uld writing alone cross the gulf that separates men and women? For the first time in my life I was willing to admit that I doubted it, and from that admission sprang a succession of thoughts that led me, by the time the train arrived in Brussels, to a conclusion diametrically opposed to the opinion I’d held when it had left Charleroi. If a crossing was indeed possible, what did I have to lose by exploring that other manifestation of the great human duality? Woman. Womanhood. Observing those sisters, I was for the first time intrigued by the possibility of such a crossing – by the thought of no longer being imprisoned by the tomb of manhood – the freedom, the release from that dungeon of violence, ambition and lust! The only person I’d known whose life had been more difficult than mine was Jeanne – and I had contributed mightily to its hardship. I decided I could justify refusing womanhood on no moral grounds other than cowardice.

  {87}

  An Unsuitable Candidate

  AS I WAITED FOR Édmonde’s next missive, I continued – between bouts of neuralgia, when I was too debilitated by laudanum to even pick up my pen – to write the words you have been reading. Despite the pain I was suffering, I felt a kind of ecstatic serenity that was hitherto unknown to me. My nightmares, which had tortured me throughout my life, were no longer a tribulation. They were replaced by dreams that were at once lucid and consoling. My body and my soul were detaching from each other. The one was racked with pain, dying, while the other was beginning to look forward to its next journey.

  Édmonde had advised me to avoid all visitors, for fear that I would betray our plans. But when Auguste knocked unexpectedly on my door one morning I could not turn him away, knowing it was perhaps the last time I would see him. He entered, saw me lying in bed weakened with pain and laudanum, and frowned.

  ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘Oh, it is nothing new, my friend,’ I replied. ‘Simply the neuralgia that has plagued me all these years.’

  ‘Do you have enough laudanum?’

  I smiled and nodded drowsily.

  He wandered over to the writing table where sheafs of paper were spread, the ones you are reading at this moment, and began to cast an eye over them.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked. He took the title page. ‘A story? “The Education of a Monster”.’

  I somehow managed to rise from my bed and take the page from his hand, gathering all the pages together and slipping them into a drawer. ‘It’s not ready.’

  ‘Have you started writing again?’

  ‘I have, but no one can read it.’ He eyed me curiously. ‘Not until it’s finished.’

  Auguste’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the matter, Charles? You’re not usually so timid about your work.’

  I slumped back onto my bed while he sat in the only chair in the room. ‘Nothing is the matter, I assure you. I will show you in due course and you will be very impressed. Long have you urged me to write stories. I have taken your advice. This one is sure to change our fortunes.’

  He smiled a little sadly. He’d heard this kind of talk before. ‘I’m very glad to hear it, Charles.’

  I could not bear to see him one last time without bidding him adieu. ‘I . . . I am about to go on a journey, Auguste.’ I could not disguise a tremor in my voice.

  ‘Where to?’

  I hadn’t considered that. Where was I travelling to? ‘The tropics.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I’ve been wanting to go for many years, as you know.’

  I could see that my friend did not believe me, but was indulging me as if I had finally taken leave of my senses. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And when will you be leaving?’

  ‘Any day now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did you come into some money?’

  Ah, money. I hadn’t considered that either. ‘Yes – my mother. She sent me some money recently. I will be travelling by train to Rotterdam, and from there to the Indies.’

  ‘Well, you must come to dinner before you leave, say goodbye to the family.’

  ‘Yes, with pleasure.’

  Auguste stood again. ‘I suppose I should be on my way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Come for dinner tomorrow night.’

  ‘I shall, my friend, thank you.’ I was very sorry to see him go.

  Left once more to my own devices, I hauled myself to my feet, took the papers out of the drawer and set to work again, writing in my bed, surrounded by papers and empty bottles, which was how I woke the following morning, to knocking at my door and the landlady’s voice calling my name. ‘A letter has arrived for you,’ she said as she came in with a platter containing coffee, bread and an envelope. She began to fuss about the mess but I sent her away. The letter was from Édmonde, and, as before, it showed signs of having been opened before delivery. I contemplated giving Madame Lepage a few choice words demanding my privacy be respected before remembering my arrears and deciding against it. When she had left, I tore the envelope open.

  Dear Monsieur Baudelaire,

  Please forgive the delay in sending you this letter. I have been undertaking the mission we discussed. Until today, my efforts had come to nought, but I can finally declare that I have made the acquaintance of a suitable candidate. I will meet you tomorrow afternoon at the railway station in Namur. The train leaves Brussels at a quarter past ten o’clock.

  I did not go to Auguste’s for dinner that night. Instead, I sent a note explaining I was feeling a little unwell and would visit the following evening. But I did not keep that rendezvous either. Rather, the following day, under a cool grey northern sky, I left the Grand Miroir with no luggage other than a satchel containing this story, a pen, a small bottle of ink, several bottles of laudanum, and a little money. I hailed a buggy and told the driver to take me to the railway station.

  The Church of Saint-Loup, where I was to meet my next body, is a sinister and elegant marvel, with an interior embroidered with black and pink and silver. Having met me at the station – standing on the platform like a funereal hourglass – Édmonde brought me to the church, telling me nothing of the person I was about to meet other than she was a young woman who had been fully informed of what was about to happen.

  There was a girl of no more than sixteen sitting on the front pew. She turned around as we approached her. It was, of course, you. You were exceedingly plain, wearing a white headscarf and a convent dress. There was something at once defeated and ill-tempered about your expression, as if you had borne the brunt of many beatings. Your complexion was pale and your hair the colour of straw; your only colouring was the pink tinge to your cheeks, which gave you the appearance of being in a state of constant embarrassment. You rose to your feet, biting your bottom lip anxiously.

  ‘Charles,’ said Édmonde, ‘this is Mathilde Roeg.’ You curtsied. ‘Mathilde, this is Monsieur Baudelaire, the gentleman I have told you about.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir, crénom!’ you said as you curtsied again. I immediately noticed, with a shiver, the low, lilting tones of a Belgian working-class accent, punctuated with that ridiculous exclamation, crénom.

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘I understand Madame Édmonde has explained to you the nature of our affair. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘No, sir.’ That lisp was most comical. ‘The lady told me what’s what, crénom! You want to look in my eyes for a few minutes, and then the lady will take me away with her and I will live a life of luxury.’

  I wondered if, despite Édmonde’s explanation, you hadn’t fully grasped the proposal that had been made to you. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’

  ‘Yes, crénom! I don’t mind at all. Men have all kinds of strange appetites.’

  ‘Can you read and write?’

  ‘Yes, sir! The nuns taught me good, sir, crénom!’

  ‘Reading, writing and religion, no doubt,’ I sighed. I took a piece of paper out of my trouser pocket, unfolded it and handed it to you. ‘Can you read this out to me?’

  You looked at it for some moments as if it wer
e in a foreign language before hesitantly beginning to read, the tinge on your cheeks blushing an ever deeper shade of red as you stumbled over the longer, unfamiliar words:

  To amuse themselves, the men of a sailing crew often

  Capture albatrosses, those great birds of the ocean,

  Who follow, indolent travel companions,

  The ship gliding across the sea’s bitter chasms.

  Poor girl, you stumbled on the poem’s title, and it only got worse from there. ‘Stop, I beseech you!’ I cried, before you were midway through your labours. ‘You are strangling my words!’ I snatched the paper from your hands and rubbed my forehead to dull the pain that had shot through the blanket of laudanum. ‘Thank you, child, that’s quite enough.’

  ‘Crénom, I didn’t understand a thing. What is it, then?’

  ‘A poem,’ I snarled. ‘Do you even know what such a thing is?’

  ‘Of course I do. Sister Bernadette had us learn one by heart, about Jesus. But why would you write one about a bird? What is an albatross, anyway?’

  ‘It’s a kind of big seagull,’ said Édmonde. ‘Thank you, Mathilde, you did very well. Why don’t you go wait for us outside and we’ll call you in again very soon.’

  You nodded, curtsied again and shuffled off towards the church’s main entrance. You had barely left when I erupted. ‘Impossible! Simply impossible! Charmless, witless, allergic to poetry and she can barely string a sentence together. That accent is dreadful, not to mention the profanity. Crénom, crénom! She’s insufferable.’

  ‘It’s a truncation of sacré nom. Surely, being a poet, you appreciate the sentiment. “Holy word”.’

  My entire body was quivering like a violin. ‘I know perfectly well what it means. It’s not the point. The point is that not only is the girl hideous to contemplate, she doesn’t even have a sense of beauty. And what is a woman without beauty?’ As soon as I had uttered the phrase, I realised I had committed a cruelty.