Chameleon (18 page)

But how do you do that?

The sun set early; street–lamps glowed outside my window, and still I didn’t move.

How could I give up the person that provided my life with meaning? How would I survive such a sacrifice day after day once I’d made it? The sky, heavy with cloud–cover, threw down the reflected lights of Annecy so that my room remained in a pewter–colored gloom. I did not rise to draw the curtains. Upon my bed, I coiled fetus–like and cried until my eyes were dry.

When the tears came no more, I felt a heavy quiet settle upon me. Turning my head to the window, I saw the starless sky, and in the lamp–light, snow falling in clumped flakes.
Christmas Eve comes tomorrow
, I thought.

Quietly, I rose and gazed out the window at a softened world. The snow had begun mounding over benches, bushes, and parked bicycles, resolving sharp angles into rounded forms. A snowfall like this would shut down school back in Las Abuelitas. I wondered how the people of Annecy would manage tomorrow’s whitened world.

Sir Walter’s words in Disneyland floated back to me as if upon the drifting snow:
I find myself able to act … for those who do live, but who will not know a tomorrow if I stand by and do nothing.
I sighed, letting the words settle deep within me. Feeling sorry for myself, feeling angry at Mickie or wounded by Will’s cold gaze: these were luxuries I could not afford.

This is how you move on
, I said to myself.
You move on when your heart has broken because moving on is the right thing to do.

I didn’t feel like turning my ten–euro dinner allowance into a trip outside for a meal, so I rummaged through my bag for snacks. Inside, I found butter cookies and a bar of chocolate. When I’d eaten them, I curled up on my bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Much later, I awakened to the sound of Will and Mickie returning to our rooms. One of them knocked gently. I sat up, rose, and opened the door. It was Will.

“You all right?” he whispered.

As I heard the kindness in his voice, I knew I was. Our small fracas earlier? That, I could survive.

“Mick and I,” he gestured over his shoulder to his silent sister, “we just want to apologize for how we responded.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. Because I knew what really, truly mattered to me now: doing the right thing and keeping Will safe.

“Come inside,” I said, beckoning to Mickie as well. “There’s more I need to tell you.”

I explained how I’d saved Deuxième’s life, adding Sir Walter’s point that we knew Helga’s plans better because of what I’d done.

Will stood silent, gazing at the snow–covered world outside my window. Finally he spoke. “That impulse you had, to save life instead of destroying it, that’s a good thing, Sam.”

“A tiny bit of beautiful in all this dark mess,” said Mickie, stepping over to squeeze my hand.

In the shadows, I saw Will’s smile.

“
Sham–sundar
,” he said, uttering the Indian word.

“Sham–whozit?” asked Mickie.

“
Sham–sundar.
It means the beautiful and the dark together,” said Will.

“Like this,” I added, gesturing to the wintry night scene beyond the window. As we looked upon the silent beauty, flakes began drifting downward.

“
Sham–sundar
,” murmured Mickie.

***

When it was time to split into smaller groups for our home–stay visits, Sir Walter encouraged us with the fact that Helga wasn’t likely to know where we were traveling as he hadn’t discussed it with our teacher, other than to say he’d be hosting us for Christmas. He took it upon himself to purchase First–Class tickets via bullet train. There were definite advantages to traveling with our wealthy friend, not the least of which was we didn’t get lost during our train transfer.

I slept the final leg of the journey, waking only as we pulled into the station at Carcassonne. Sir Walter arranged a taxi and Will, Mickie, and I squashed into the back seat for the short drive in the dark. I could see nothing, but it was plain enough we drove on a narrow and twisting road. We pulled into a gravel drive beside a small dwelling and tumbled out into the cool night air.

I set my bags down in the Barbie–sized bedroom Sir Walter indicated for me, six thousand miles from family and hugs on Christmas Eve. But I was not alone. In the front room, my three companions laughed heartily. A smile grew on my face. My chest feeling lighter, I shut my door, kicked off my boots, and clothes–still–on, crawled shivering into a bed that was soft and warm.

Chapter Twenty–Three

THE WELL OF JUNO

“
Joyeux Noël! Levez–vous, tout–le–monde!
Rise, rise, Happy Christmas!” The deep voice of Sir Walter roused me from dreams of hiking in Yosemite, the sun baking my neck. I kicked back covers that now stifled me. The house had warmed considerably since our late–night arrival.

It was Christmas morning. I smiled.

My skin felt scratchy from sleeping in my clothes, so I threw on clean ones and stumbled out into the main living area.

An inferno blazed in the stone fireplace and above the fire, threatening to drop into it, hung a pair of identical white tube–socks, drooping with odd–shaped items. Stockings? On Christmas morning in
France
?

I’d beaten Will out of bed, but Mickie was sitting with Sir Walter, drinking coffee and eating croissants. I crept toward the stockings and saw my name, written in Sharpie beside the other sock bearing Will’s name. I grabbed mine and flopped at the table.

“Where’s yours?” I asked Mickie, who was sneezing.

“I don’t think
Père Noël
leaves them for adults,” she said, blowing her nose.

“
Père Noël
puts treats in
shoes
,” I said.

“Yeah, I already got that lecture from the resident expert in all things French.” Mickie sniffled and stirred her coffee glumly.

“You got a cold?”

Mickie sneezed.

“Wow,” I said. “Merry Christmas to you, huh?”

Mickie sneezed again.

“
Joyeux Noël
!” Sir Walter’s eyes twinkled as he poured a cup of hot chocolate for me, thick as creek–mud.

“
Joyeux Noël
,” I replied. The cup radiated heat like a tiny midwinter sun in my hands.

“So open it, already,” Mickie said, rattling my stocking upon the table.

I shook it empty. The tube–sock had been stuffed with American candy and French bons–bons and an envelope containing two crisp hundred–euro notes.

“Those are
not
from me, er,
Père Noël
,” Mickie said, tapping the bills. “Sylvia and your dad made me bring those, and I’ve been scared silly I’d lose them.” She coughed into her elbow.

I read a card that must have held the money before I dumped everything out.

“I’m supposed to find something wonderful in France for Christmas,” I said.

Will strolled into the room and mussed his sister’s hair. “I’m wonderful. I’m in France.”

I almost choked on my hot chocolate. Will looked like an ad for bed–head. I swallowed back desire and shifted my eyes away from
all I wanted for Christmas
.

His eyes darted to the fireplace. “Yes!” He grabbed his stocking, dislodged the contents onto a rug in front of the blaze, and began chugging the 330ml can of Dr. Pepper, ignoring the Skittles, Starbursts, Suchards and new toothbrush for the moment.

Then he smiled widely and ripped a phenomenal burp while saying “Merry Christmas” at the same time.

My angst–y feelings scurried and I burst into a fit of giggles.

Mickie said, “Bro, that was deeply disturbing,” and sneezed.

Sir Walter politely ignored the performance.

“Are you sick, Mickie?” asked Will.

“Sick of you,” she said, throwing a small package at him.

He caught and unwrapped the gift—a cell phone—and went over to his sister to give her a hug.

“Hello!” she said, pushing him away. “Major germs here.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

“Yeah, well, don’t fall all over yourself about it. Stupid phone doesn’t work in France, only in America.”

As we sat around the table, Sir Walter explained his plans for the day.

“Tomorrow evening you travel to rejoin your group. Before that, I wish to take you to an important historical site of the region—”

Will grinned. “Sweet.”

Sir Walter smiled and continued, “And then we will return in time for the midnight mass in the old city, followed by
la Reveille
.”

I’d heard of
la Reveille,
the tradition of eating a huge feast after Christmas mass. Mickie looked confused, so I explained it to her.

“The midnight buffet sounds great,” she said. “But I think I’ve seen enough historically significant things to last me several lifetimes. No offense, Sir Walter, but I’d actually prefer to spend the day nursing my cold by the fire. And maybe I’ll give your translation of the black book another read–through.”

Will crossed to hand his sister a fresh box of tissue and give her a hug. Mickie shoved him away. “Out of my air–space! Go breathe on something … historical.”

After we’d finished breakfast, Will and I piled in a tiny Citroën car that our host had conjured out of an ancient garage.

“Not the front seat,” warned Sir Walter.

Upon inspection, it appeared there was no front passenger seat to speak of. The springs were clearly visible through threads that had once been cloth. Clearly, this had been appropriated for other uses.

“Mice,” said our French friend. “I need to keep a cat, but …”

He didn’t finish the thought as he tried to start the engine a third time. Exiting the vehicle, Sir Walter lifted the hood and fumbled with the engine, crooning to it. He finished, chuckling.

“And no doubt you are thirsty, poor girl!” He opened the gas flap on my side and poured out the contents of a nearby gas can, sloshing a large portion down the side of the car. “Now we can be sure she will make the return trip!”

This time the car started.

“Are you sure this place will be open today? Everything’s closed in America on Christmas Day,” I said as we bounced along a tiny road, the hill–top village of Carcassonne receding behind us.

“It is less a matter of the site being open, and more a matter of knowing how to gain entrance,” replied Sir Walter.

“More breaking and entering,” I muttered to Will. “Terrific.” My flat tone told him I thought it anything but terrific.

Will, however, just grinned.

“What do you know of the presence of ancient Rome in Gaul?” asked Sir Walter.

Will answered. “Not something we study much in America, but if I remember, it seems like Julius Caesar kicked your ancestors’ butts, right?”

Sir Walter grunted, probably in assent. “The ancient Romans came to this region prior to Caesar in order to visit the hot springs. I am taking you to a place they considered quite holy, sacred to Juno. It was believed to be a propitious place for conceiving children—children marked by the blessing of the goddess.”

The Citroën lurched as we turned onto a dirt road full of potholes. The poor car rattled as if bits and pieces would soon fall off, a bread–crumb–trail to help us back home. Sir Walter had to stop the car to open a gate that ran across the road.

“These lands were held by my family for seven hundred years,” Sir Walter said.

“As in, this is yours?” Will asked, clearly impressed.

Sir Walter shrugged. “The present government of France does not think so. The land has been redistributed innumerable times in the past two centuries since
La Révolution
. I am not certain who is considered the present owner.”

“Do you still think of this as your … home?” Will asked.

“Home.” Sir Walter laughed softly to himself.

“Where you live, you know. Do you live here now?” Will asked again.

“My dear boy, I live a great many places now. But I retain no dwelling on a permanent basis. I have no need for it. A dwelling, in my condition, would be superfluous.”

“I counted out that you’ve been staying solid about two and a half hours per day, on average,” Will said.

“Very good,” said Sir Walter. “You are correct.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to do the math on how he’d lived so long. A single happy thought fluttered through my belly: Will and I, together through oncoming centuries. But the thought of Helmann’s plans for a thousand–year
reich
quickly squelched the dreamy image.

“I find it more convenient to live in dwellings maintained by others,” continued Sir Walter. “Chenonceau, where we first met, is a favorite of mine. Although I also appreciate modern touches from time to time.”

“You just go from place to place?” I asked.

“Quite,” he replied.

“How often do you need to eat and sleep?” Will asked.

“As I now live, I require a good meal twice a week, and I prefer to sleep once every week or so, although it is possible to pass many hours in a state resembling rest whilst one is in chameleon form,” he replied. “This, as I mentioned before, would account for our friend Deuxième’s ability to do without sleep in the conventional sense.”

“Bodyguards that don’t require sleep,” began Will, “No wonder she didn’t follow her brother’s orders to kill them. They’d be invaluable.”

“Hans instructed her last October to kill the bodyguards who had seen me,” I explained. “Ivanovich was one of them.”

“I’ll bet that’s why Deuxième—I mean Ivanovich—was invisible the time we went to Helga’s lab together,” Will said. “She’s keeping her breeding experiments secret from Hans.”

Sir Walter nodded. “She most certainly would not wish word to drift to her father that she is creating her own chameleons.”

As we rounded a bend, Sir Walter struck a particularly deep pothole. The glove box popped unlatched, and a yellowed first aid kit fell onto the floor, open. Sir Walter ignored the disemboweling of the small compartment and parked, announcing we had arrived.

“There’s not much here,” said Will.

All I saw was a tumbled–down ruin. No telling what it had once been. A shrubby brush I didn’t recognize covered the sloping hillside opposite the crumbled building. The sun shone weakly on the empty landscape, and I heard wind whispering through the shrubs. Sir Walter bent forward and tore a small fist–full of dirt from the cold ground. Bringing the earth to his nose, he inhaled as though scenting a fine wine. Then he stood and surveyed the ruin.