Feast of All Saints (36 page)

But then he broke the contained pose for an instant and ran his hands over his hair. “Maybe I wasted Paris,” he murmured. “It became a foul taste in the mouth and an endless throbbing in the head.”

Marcel studied him, studied the way that he lifted a pencil from his desk and meant to break it firmly with both hands.

“Then it is just parting from the Englishman, then, just saying good-bye?”

“Just
parting from the Englishman?” Christophe looked up.
“Just
parting from the Englishman?” His lips lengthened in a grimace.

Shyly, Marcel looked away. “If you want to be here with us,” he said, “and we want you here—need you—then why is it so hard for the Englishman to understand?”

Christophe’s brows came together in a tense frown. “Because he needs me,” he sighed. “He needs me to need him again. And there’s a monstrous injustice in all this, a monstrous injustice which no one comprehends here except me.”

“I know he’s not good for you,” Marcel blurted suddenly, “and when he does leave this place, you’ll be better off!”

He pressed his lips together tightly. He had gone too far. But he could hardly bear to see Christophe as he was now, and only the Englishman could reduce the resolute and quick-witted teacher to a diffident and miserable young boy.

“I’m sorry,” Marcel muttered.

“You despise him, don’t you?” Christophe asked. “The same as Maman. You glare at him as if he were some menace and she curses him, threatens him with voodoo magic, calls him names…”

“Christophe, that’s because she’s afraid of him, she’s afraid he’ll persuade you to leave here, just as I’m afraid. Besides, she believes him to be…well, a man, who took you away from your home in Paris years ago!”

Now he had done it! But he had the distinct impression he was fighting some sort of battle here, Christophe was asking him to fight it, and he didn’t fully understand the terms.

“My home in Paris!” Christophe bent forward. “My home in Paris, did she use those words! Good God, such sublime simplicity of mind! You know, sometimes I think I understand my mother’s madness perfectly. It is the perfect selfishness, she will not understand what she does not wish to understand!”

“Christophe, she’ll hear you,” Marcel cautioned.

“So, let her hear me! Let me bring down the rafters on her head. My home in Paris, for the love of heaven! That hotel and those people, I’d been there two years in that place without a letter from New Orleans, the bank clerk who left me there was gone! I stole to get the paper to write her! Now, Marcel, there are shops in this very street where a woman can dictate a letter and have that letter sent abroad.”

“But what did happen?” Marcel asked.

Christophe ran his hand back through his hair again, fingers raking the tight close-cropped brown waves. “I sometimes wonder myself,” he said. “But I’m not being honest, the whole truth is, I know too well.” He drew himself up, clearing his throat slightly. “It was her father’s idea. And it must have sounded terribly official when he spoke
to his lawyers; but you see, by the time I’d crossed the ocean and passed through a succession of strangers, there was little left of the original design. A family took me for the money offered, and kept me out of school to work in the hotel. I didn’t have shoes by the time Michael came to lodge there, I’d run off twice and come back rather than starve. I can’t talk about those times even now,” he shifted uneasily. “But I can tell you this, I was younger than you are when I arrived there, and two years seemed the length and breadth of the world.”

“I didn’t know…” Marcel whispered.

“I don’t expect you to know,” he said. “But she doesn’t know either, that’s the tragedy of it. But if only she’d had a little strength, if only she had stood up to that man. She was always the prey of the lovers of her life, but I always knew with her that I came first. That no matter what happened, she was my mother and I belonged to her and she belonged to me. I’d look at them with their fancy carriages and their presents, they’d pay the rent, they’d order me around. But I knew I’d outlast them, all her lovers, and if they ever dared lay hands on me, well that would be the end. They could slap her around all right, I listened to enough of that through these walls. But she belonged to me and I belonged to her, until he came, her father, that glowering ghost from the past. A brigand was what he’d been, one of these wild Haitians who’ve lived for generations in the hills, runaway slaves in one century and rebels in the next. That man was made of iron, with all that blood on his hands, and all that gold in the banks.

“Oh, how the lawyers impressed him, I can remember the offices here myself. Lots of leather and green velvet, a little good sherry, I was to be educated abroad.
In loco parentis
, I was to have a good French family. And then that bleak little hotel, those grim-faced peasants with their leather straps, and the cot under the stairs.”

Christophe made a short bitter sound.

“The first night Michael came, he let me warm my hands and feet at the grate when I brought up his supper. Then claiming he wasn’t hungry, he watched me devour every morsel on that tray.” He shook his head, musing, his eyes quite remote from Marcel. “Strange, I’ve never written a word about that. Mr. Charles Dickens would probably have written about it, but then he isn’t scribbling nonsense between puffs of a hashish pipe.”

Marcel said nothing. It was all as gossip had told it, he could almost hear Monsieur Philippe’s drawling voice at table recounting the old tale. Only the Englishman had never been part of it. And until this moment, perhaps, Marcel had still doubted Juliet’s fears. Now he was riveted to Christophe, and at the same time afraid. “He felt sorry for you, then…” he whispered.

“Sorry for me? He became my life. He bought me clothes, a warm blanket, gave me something to eat, took me everywhere he went. Then the day came that I dreaded, the day he told me he was going away.” He sighed. He grasped the pencil again in one hand as if he wanted to break it against his fingers with the pressure of his thumb. Marcel could all but feel the pressure he exerted upon it. But Christophe continued, “I thought I was going to die. I told him I’d run away as soon as he was gone, I couldn’t stay there any longer, I didn’t care what happened to me, I was going away. Well, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment. He was sitting by the window in his room. I remember this as if it were happening now.

“ ‘I’ve come to a decision, Christophe,’ he said. ‘It’s a decision the world would not understand. But I’ve come to it, the struggle is over. Pack your belongings now quietly, and be ready to leave with me tonight.’ ”

The hand that held the pencil suddenly broke it in half. Christophe watched it drop to the desk. “I wonder what would have become of me if he’d left me there.” His eyes moved slowly to Marcel. “Three years passed before I walked into the offices of a solicitor in London and had him write to Maman. I had wanted to punish her, I had wanted her to believe I was dead.”

Marcel bowed his head. Something stirred in his soul, a vague excitement as he thought of those “three years” and the names so often mentioned by the two men, Istanbul, Athens, Tangier.

Then Christophe asked in a small voice, “Do you know my worst fear?”

Marcel looked up.

“That
she
was dead. That I’d lost her. That maybe she’d disappeared. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And oddly enough, as time passed, she became more and more real. I could remember all manner of things about her that I did not even know I had known. I would awake in different cities feeling the atmosphere of this house around me. I would dream of her. She was with me, at last, night and day. I was trembling the day I went to the solicitors for their answer. They had contacted a law office here, in the Rue Camp uptown. The old bastard, her father, was bedridden, paralyzed from a stroke and she had cried uncontrollably when they let her understand I was alive. All she ever said to any of them was Tell him to come home.’

“Well,” Christophe shrugged with the same bitterness he had evinced before. “We had already booked passage to Istanbul and I had no intention of crossing the sea for her, after what she’d done to me, not while that bloody Haitian was still alive. I instructed the solicitors to let me know as soon as he’d departed this earth, but by that time, well, I was in Paris, I was famous for writing nonsense about an improbable
heroine named Charlotte and her preposterous lover, Randolphe. Michael had educated me, outfitted me, instructed me in the fine points of manners, polite conversation, vintage wines. It was he who dealt with the publishers, managed the rent, and carried me home on his arm from the cafés.

“I couldn’t teach you or anyone else a damned thing if it weren’t for Michael. I wouldn’t be a teacher, a writer, I wouldn’t have the money in my pockets for a dram of absinthe!”

He turned his head sharply to the side.

Below and far to the back of the house, a clock chimed, so faint that a sigh would have obliterated it. Marcel listened, but did not note the time. As a matter of fact it seemed to go on forever.

He took no note of anything around him, not even of Christophe who rested his forehead against his open hand, the heel of his boot hooked in the rung of his chair. The story had left him miserable and vaguely excited and he did not know why. He loathed the Englishman, positively loathed him, but he had a profound and numbing sense of two people together, wandering over land and sea, together, the one sheltering the other, caring for the other and
just how that might be!
It was so alluring suddenly that without realizing it he gave a slight shake of the head. And he felt pain for the Englishman that this was ended, utterly ended, and he felt terrible pain for Christophe.

There was one great flaw in the story, however, a hideous flaw. Why hadn’t the Englishman written to the mother in New Orleans, why hadn’t he tried to help the boy get home?

Christophe drew himself up. His voice was thick, heavy. “It’s time for me to go.”

For a moment, Marcel didn’t answer. He was feeling a dull palpitation. Then he said softly, “But surely you’ll see him again.” Christophe shook his head. “I think not.”

He stared at Christophe who sat stiff again, like the model for the Daguerreotype in the chair.

“But why must it be so final, Chris, I don’t understand!”

“Because it’s finished!” Christophe whispered, his eyes widening on the shadows before him. “Because I owe him my life! And that is simply too much to bear!”

He rose. He stretched his arms out, clenched his fists, and then let them drop at his side.

Marcel stared at his straight back, the square shoulders, the head that faced the wall of poems. The night seemed empty around them except for some soft, distant rustling sound. Marcel blinked as if the story had been a sudden blaze that had blinded him, and he must regain his sight.

“Do you want to walk with me…part of the way?” Christophe
murmured over his shoulder. “We could find one of those little riverfront bistros you so love and have a cool beer.”

“Yes,” Marcel rose slowly. “Maybe I could wait for you…outside the hotel.”

“No,” Christophe shook his head. “I’ll see him off,” he said, and reached out for the package of cheroots on the desk.

But there was a soft tread in the hallway. And the tall, willowy figure of the slave Bubbles appeared in the door.

“Michie, a man’s here,” said the slave, “come from the St. Charles Hotel.”

“Damn,” Christophe muttered. “Anger on top of everything else.”

Marcel followed him through the dark hallway at a slow pace.

He didn’t welcome the sight of the angry Englishman cursing Christophe for not coming sooner. However, it was a black man at the foot of the stairs, with a lantern in his hand. Christophe turned to Marcel, and at first Marcel thought the light had distorted the expression on his face.

“Michie, you best move him out of there right now,” said the black man. “They say he’s far gone with it, and when it gets these Englishmen, Michie, they drop like flies.”

“No!” Christophe was staring wide-eyed. He shook his head, and said again, “No. He’s been in Cairo with the cholera, with the plague. This is nothing, surely…”

“Michie, he’s got it, and they want him out of the hotel.”

“Got what?” Marcel whispered.

But he already knew.

T
HE
E
NGLISHMAN
was delirious. He did not know that he was being taken into the carriage, nor out of it, up the stairs into Christophe’s room. A tousled and sleepy Juliet came into the hallway, a flowered shawl over her long silk gown. Pushing her hair back angrily she padded toward them, passing Marcel in the open doorway and looked down at the Englishman in Christophe’s bed. His head lay limp against the pillow, his hair wet and dark against his high forehead, eyes at half-mast. The breath came from him in slow, measured gasps.

Bubbles, having gone for water, brought the pitcher to Christophe who wet his handkerchief and laid it on the Englishman’s head. “Michael, can you understand me?” he said in English. He had asked this over and over on the way to the house. “Oh, where is the doctor, for the love of God!” He turned to them with clenched teeth.

“He’s coming, Michie,” said Bubbles in that soft, eternally calm voice. “The fever is all over tonight, Michie, he will come when he can.”

Christophe tore at the Englishman’s shirt, loosening the buttons at his throat, then wrapped the robe more tightly around him.

“It isn’t a doctor he needs, Christophe,” Marcel said. “It’s a good nurse. Our people are the best for that, the doctor will tell you this when he gets here, to get him a nurse.”

Christophe turned to Juliet. She was leaning against the door frame staring down at the Englishman from the corner of her eye.

“You know what to do for him, Maman, you know yellow fever, you’ve seen it here and in Saint-Domingue.”

She turned her gaze slowly to Christophe, eyes widening as if with disbelief. “You ask that of me!” she whispered. “Me, and that man!”

“Maman!” he grabbed her suddenly by the arms, as if he meant to hurt her. She merely let her head drop to one side.