The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(79)

“Extended how?” Carlota asked. “Thirty years, that’s the life span of a hybrid. That is what you told Mr. Lizalde.”

“I crossed that limit but never revealed it for fear he’d think the project was at an end, for fear he’d snatch you from my arms. You, Lupe, Cachito, the younger ones, you should all live the life span of a common adult. I improved my work.”

He stretched out a trembling hand, as if to touch her face. “Can’t you see how difficult a feat you are? You are better than human. Almost flawless.”

She turned her head so that he might not reach her. “What of the other hybrids? Didn’t you hear what Lupe said? Their bodies pain them. Their joints ache. Their sight grows poor quickly or they have growths over their skin. You’ve always dismissed their complaints and even if they are stronger than previous creations, they are far from healthy.”

Lupe had turned her back to the doctor and moved close to the window, grasping the curtains and looking outside.

“I had to create the hybrids for Lizalde, Carlota. I did. Without them, I’d have had no funding, nothing. The intermingling of human and animal traits had unexpected side effects. Birth defects, illness. It’s as if by ripping out the front page of a book you also ripped three from the back of it. I’ve attempted to correct the course, but it is hard, and the funding dwindled with each year. Hernando Lizalde grew deaf to my pleas. I did what I could for you, my daughter.”

But not for the others, she thought. Had there been treatments that he could have developed for them instead of spinning an elaborate fiction? Could there have been relief for them?

“You had Montgomery bring jaguars periodically,” Carlota said, frowning. “You said they were used for my treatment, but since that was a lie, what did you use them for?”

“At first, to try and replicate my success with you. I thought the jaguar had been the key ingredient, but as the years went by I suspected it was your mother who in some mysterious way made the difference. But I did not dare have another woman carry a child and limited myself to using the hogs and my incubating chamber rather than a human womb. Still, I held hope the jaguar might be an important clue. Later, it became a necessary pretense. If you should ever manifest any animal traits, I thought I could convince you it was the injections I had given you. I could tell my assistant the same story.”

“But Melquíades knew the truth. It couldn’t have been much of a pretense.”

“Melquíades suspected, but toward the end. It was why I had him thrown out and hired Montgomery. He was also trying to steal my research, which didn’t help matters. He was putting his nose where it didn’t belong, going through my journals.” Her father’s face had grown agitated, regaining a fraction of his furious vitality. “And it worked, it did work. Montgomery didn’t know, Hernando didn’t, either. Melquíades guessed. He guessed. But I could have fixed it. If you hadn’t attacked Hernando…but, ah, I might still fix it.

“Yes, think about your youth! You’ve been whole and healthy for many years now. Gone are the migraines, the pain. Even now, this transformation that overtook you is but a brief episode. Your limbs are strong and straight, your eyes are clear. I took care of you, and I will continue to do so. Tweaks…everything can be tweaked.”

She thought he might try to reach for her again, and this made her want to weep. But instead she raised her head high. “For you everything is still a work in progress. Something that must be tweaked. But sometimes you break something, father, and you can’t put it back together again.”

Her father muttered a couple of words and then he groaned, seemingly running out of breath, his burst of energy quickly spent. He compressed his lips and then turned his eyes to a corner of the room, where Montgomery stood silently.

“Mr. Laughton, can you grab pen and paper and take dictation?”

“I can.”

“Then do so now, please.”

She heard Montgomery fiddling with drawers and pulling a chair, sitting at the table where her father scribbled notes. Then her father spoke again.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Date the document, please. I, Gustave Moreau, being of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath all my possessions and the monies in my bank account to my natural daughter, Carlota Moreau. I designate as my executor Francisco Ritter of Mérida and to him I also assign the task of contacting my brother, émile, that he may know of the existence of his niece. I have asked for nothing for myself, but do request of you, émile, that my daughter be granted the fortune I was denied, that she be provided as would befit a Moreau. This, I beg of my brother, as my dying wish. Now you must sign as my witness, Montgomery, and I will sign my name, too.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Leaving behind what I have. And ensuring someone will look after you. My family banished me, but it’s been many years since then, and my brother will feel obligated to his kin, even if it’s a girl he’s never met.”

“A girl who is not human.”

“A girl who is my daughter. You will always be the better part of me,” he said with a terrible tenderness and a sadness that made his voice tremble.

Carlota watched quietly as her father signed his name, then handed her the piece of paper. She looked at it as if she’d never seen such an item before, inspecting Montgomery’s compact handwriting and her father’s signature, then carefully folding it.