Quiver (22 page)

Flesh as strawberries, blood kisses. The image of Báthory biting into a girl like she’s mutton plays over and over in my head like a scene from a horror movie. Báthory’s is the ultimate story of extremity, obscenity. Of the violence one can inflict if obsession and action go unfettered. She is rare, a weapon and a jewel.

I think of Maria transcribing then translating these words. The diaries are the antithesis of the sanitized, measured way I’ve been trained to understand disorders and offenders. I’m curious what sort of freedom I might experience if I surrender to their pull.

The next day at work, Kelly knocks on my door and hands me a thick envelope. “Just came by courier. I signed for it.”

I look at the return address—it’s from Maria. As soon as Kelly has gone, I rip it open. Inside is a four-page contract. Maria has left a sticky note on the front page:

Dani,

Just some business. Sign on pg. 4. Then we will be partners! Call me if
y
ou have any questions. See you at the ball!

x, M.

Despite wanting to escape the constraints of Stowmoor, I’m unsure what to do. I don’t really care about becoming certified, don’t want to keep working in my field indefinitely. And as Maria says, when will I get another chance like this? If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been hoping for something that would force me off this path I’ve been on. But what she’s proposing, it’s so uncertain.

I look over the contract. It has nothing to do with a publisher; rather, it’s some sort of working agreement between the two of us. It mentions primary author assignation (her, of course, complete with solo dust-jacket photo), that she will receive complete and sole credit for the discovery of the diaries, that she will have final say regarding all parts of the manuscript. So much for breaking free of restrictive rules, I think. I’ve never worked on a publication like this before, though, so maybe this isn’t so unusual.

My computer tings. I have a new email, another message from Foster’s lawyer, marked urgent. I didn’t reply to his last one. I’d hoped that whatever he wanted—whether it was to sue me for defamation of his client or to encourage me to speak about him more—he had just forgotten about it.

Turns out, he hasn’t. He still wants to meet. This time, he writes,
I am interested in discussing the possibility of hiring you as a consultant on Mr. Foster’s case.
Consultant? But I couldn’t do paid work for Lewison, a defence lawyer, if I’m employed at Stowmoor; it would be a conflict of interest. I hear Maria’s lecture from the weekend:
You make your own success.

I leave the email unanswered and call Maria. I have questions about this document, but I also want to see what she thinks about the lawyer’s email. She answers on the second ring.

“Dani! Did you receive the package?”

“Yes. There seem to be a lot of stipulations.”

“This is how I work, Dani. I had an experience once, years ago, things went very sour with a collaborator. I find it is best to lay things out, very clearly, at the start.”

“It looks like you have pretty much complete control of the project.”

“Dani, it is only on paper, in case of the worst. With us, it will be more like we are partners.”

“Right.”

“Do not worry. I will take care of us. Did you get the tickets?”

“The tickets?”

“In the envelope. Look.”

There’s a small envelope at the bottom of the package, with
Danica and Henry
written on the front in Maria’s elegant cursive. I shake out the contents onto my desk. Two gold-embossed rectangles of heavy ivory-coloured card stock fall on top of the contract. I pick one up.
Art and Design Institute Ball,
it reads, in what looks like hand-drawn calligraphy,
Grosvenor Hotel, June 21st, cocktails 8 p.m., drinks and dancing 9 p.m. onwards.
I know that tickets to the Art Institute Ball are highly coveted. I’ve heard Wilson gossip about it—
Oh, the year Tracey Emin did such-and-such the night of the Art Institute Ball
—it sounded like something whimsical, magical, that I would never have the chance to attend.

“These aren’t real?” I say.

“They are very real,” laughs Maria.

“Where did you get them? Why do I have them?”

“I told you, I will take care of us. I thought, maybe, a perk would be good for you.”

I look around my very small, bare, grey office. At the three filing cabinets I shuffle papers among. At my view onto the bland, fluorescent-lit hallway. It feels like I’m underwater here, at the bottom of a cold, rocky lake, holed in my little cave to avoid lampreys like Sloane latching onto me. I imagine leaving this place to put on a long, slinky gown, pulling up to the Grosvenor Hotel in a limo. Walking into the white light of a sparkling ballroom.

“Seriously?” I ask Maria. “Don’t important or famous people go to this sort of thing?”

“Danica, soon you will be one of those people. Now, there is just one thing we must discuss—”

There is a beeping on the line, and I see a light flashing on my phone. A call from reception. Dr. Sloane walks by my hallway window and glances in. I feel like she can tell I’m on a personal call.

“I will have to get back to you on that matter,” I say, straightening up and grabbing a pen off my desk, trying to look very businesslike. Dr. Sloane keeps walking. “I have a call on the other line.”

“Ah yes, you are calling from work. It is best that we leave things off here. I will be in touch. We will need to go shopping for a dress.”

The line clicks and she is gone.

Henry’s actually home when I turn the latch. “Hey,” he shouts from the loveseat. He’s slouched into one corner of it, staring at the TV, and he doesn’t look at me as I hang up my coat and take off my shoes. I’m excited to show him the tickets in my purse. But first, I step into the bathroom to touch up my makeup and take out my ponytail. I make sure to clear any stray hairs from the sink and counter. “I have some news,” I say, as I dab a bit of gloss on my lips.

“Yeah?” he calls out, not moving his gaze from the screen.

I pull the tickets out of my purse and sit beside him. “Look!” I say, holding up the tickets.

“Hmm?” He’s still riveted to the quiz show.

“Seriously,” I kiss his cheek, “look!” I thrust the tickets in front of his eyes. He’s momentarily annoyed, but as he reads the gold calligraphy, his mouth drops open.

“Are these legit? Are they for us? Where did you get them?” The quiz show is forgotten.

I assure him they are genuine, and for us, and that we are really going to go. “They’re from Maria,” I say.

“Really? Wow! Why did she give them to you?”

“It’s, well, it’s kind of a business perk, I guess.” I say it hoping we can gloss over the specifics of “business.”

“What kind of business do you have with Maria?”

“We’re working on a project together. A book.”

“A book?” He raises his eyebrows. “What sort of book? Why did she ask you to work on it?” He sounds defensive, almost jealous.

“It’s just an afterword,” I say. “To some historical documents. About Báthory.” He frowns. “It’s just a little project. I’m writing a small section, you know, psychologist’s take, that’s all.”

“Oh.” He flips the tickets over in his hand. “Well, that sounds like a nice little project, sweet pea. As long as you think you can juggle that and your job. We gotta cover rent.”

I pretend to look for something in the fridge. This afterword is the most exciting thing I’ve been asked to do for a while, and he thinks it’s just a little thing, less important than the rent. I think about telling him that it’s not a little thing, that I’m even getting paid for it, that I’m tired of Stowmoor. That Maria is showing more interest in me than he’s been lately.

“Hey, you want to go out for supper tonight? Celebrate these tickets?” He leans against the counter. “Really, that’s so nice of Maria to give them to us.”

“Sure.” I shut the fridge door. It’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve been out somewhere, just the two of us. I feel guilty suddenly for assuming he cares more about the rent than my happiness. I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about this project with Maria. Henry and I just need to talk. It’s been too busy lately.

“Cool. I’ll jump in the shower and then we can head out.”

I hear the shower turn on. I put the tickets back in my purse and pull out Maria’s contract from my bag.
It’s a door.
Some voice keeps repeating that, Maria’s, or some part of my own brain maybe. I envision my life in ten years if I don’t go through this door, if I don’t do the book, don’t take the chance to consult for Lewison. I’ll probably still be uncertified, working assistant-level jobs in places older and drearier than Stowmoor, or I’ll have to go through a demoralizing job search back in Canada, and in the meantime try to study for my licence exams, which could take years. Or working with some counselling firm, talking office workers through depression and anxiety problems, eight hours a day.

My phone chirps. A text from Maria:
D
,
shopping for the ball this Saturday? And coffee? There are details we must discuss.

The last time I saw Maria before she turned up in London was over a year ago. Carl had taken me to Prague, and I came down to Budapest, as Maria suggested. We began our search for the diaries the afternoon I arrived, but our lack of progress at the archives was discouraging. Frustratingly, I realized I knew very little about how to do historical research. I felt useless, and worried that Maria might think me useless too.

“Dani, but that is ridiculous,” she said when I told her my concerns. “It has been long days for you, at the conference, the train ride.” We were at her flat; she had wheeled my suitcase into a tiny spare room. There was a twin bed covered with a white cotton quilt. “You must have a night of rest.”

The next morning, bright summer light shone through the small bedroom window. Maria, dressed in a violet peignoir, came into the room carrying a vase of lilies. She set the flowers on the nightstand. “You are awake?”

“Barely.”

“The morning light, it is nice in your hair.” She lay down on the bed, her head inches from mine on the pillow. “You are feeling better than yesterday?”

“Yes, much.” I propped myself up on my elbow.

“Dani, to find the diaries, it would be wonderful. But your visit, it is also wonderful. And in Budapest, there are many things I can show you.” She smiled.

I was relieved she was still enthusiastic about my visit. My hair shone alongside hers in the sunlight, my golden red and her deep ruby.

Maria sat up and pulled a lily out of the vase. “These are from the Great Market hall.” She reached towards me and ran the soft petals down my arm. “We can visit it later.” Then she stood, put the lily back in the vase, and started to walk out of the room. “This morning, I must do some errands.” She paused by the door. “But you have a map of the city? Meet me outside the Gellert spa at two.”

I waited for Maria outside of the Gellert. It was a searing mid-July day. The air was humid and touched with smog; the spires of the parliament buildings on the far side of the river were softened through the haze. I could hear voices and the sound of splashing water coming from the open-air part of the spa, fenced off from public view. It was ten past two.

“So sorry, Dani,” Maria was saying, another ten minutes later, as she rushed up the steps to meet me. “You know it is difficult to be on time in this heat.” Her hair was slicked into a coiled braid at the nape of her neck. She took off her big sunglasses and tucked them away in a pocket of her gold shoulder bag. “Here,” she said, taking my hand and leading me inside the double doors, “we must join the queue.”

We stepped through the double doors, walked down a short hallway and entered another set of doors. Inside was a grand hall, the floor checked with black and white tiles, each one about a foot square. The ceiling was high, cathedral-like.

Maria got us tickets and led me towards the change area.

“I told her we need only one change room,” said Maria. She put her hand on the small of my back and gave me a gentle push forward.

The cubicle was large enough for both of us. I put my bag in the corner and changed quickly, facing the wall. Maria laughed.

My bathing suit, a navy tankini, safely on, I turned around. Maria was standing with her hands on her hips, in white bikini bottoms, topless.

“Ready?” she asked.

“They allow topless bathing here?”

“Ah, you are so silly. Of course, in the women’s section. We must do the hot and cold pools first, before we go outside.”

She opened the door, picked up her tote and called the attendant to put our bags in a locker. Maria took the wristband with the metal disc that indicated the locker number; she slipped it over her right hand, the silver a few shades paler than her skin. I followed her down the corridor between the rows of change rooms. She had no tan lines, but I noticed a smattering of freckles across her shoulder blades.

“The hot one first.” Maria took my hand and led me into the first pool on the right. I walked down marble steps into warm, clear water. Maria reached the bottom step before me, released my hand, pushed off and glided across the small pool. The water was chest-level, and I kept taking heavy, water-slowed steps in Maria’s direction. She was resting, her back against the wall, the tops of her breasts breaking the surface of the water with each small wave I pushed towards her.

“Come, look at the ceiling.” She motioned me over. “You are such a slowpoke.”

“Now look.” She pointed out the small Roman-style pillars, the domed opaque skylight that let in muted sunshine. There was a second pool, about the same size as the one we were in, a few feet away. The wide strip of tile between the two pools led into a darker room. Young women in string bikinis walked by and into the dark room; so did large older women, some wearing nothing but a small cream bib, wet and translucent, with light cotton underwear. My tankini suddenly felt like a turtleneck.