Spectacle(17)

Sometimes it was hard to remember how Simone had passed the time before Le Chat Noir. Was it really just a few months ago that their evenings had been spent at the Rooftop Salon, watching passersby below and making up stories about them?

Nathalie slid past a beggar in the doorway of Simone’s building, noise reaching her ears as she stepped into the dim foyer. Someone was always shouting or playing the piano or having a party; if not, there still remained an underlying hum of voices. The place smelled of cigars and alcohol so thoroughly that it seemed to have been painted onto the walls. The wooden stairs, bearers of countless weary feet, groaned as she made her way up to the apartment.

Simone had her independence, but her new life was far from lavish.

“You won’t believe it. Read for yourself,” said Nathalie as soon as Simone opened the door. She pulled Le Petit Journal from her bag and shoved it into Simone’s hands while crossing the threshold.

“I overslept. I didn’t even splash on rose water yet.” Simone yawned and closed the door. “And my mind isn’t ready to read anything.”

Nathalie took the paper back from her, rolling her eyes. “I’ll read it to you, then.”

They sat on the sofa, Simone stretched out like Stanley after a nap and Nathalie bunched up, legs folded under. A tiger ready to pounce.

Nathalie read the article aloud, and by the end of it, Simone was off the sofa and pacing the room.

“I can’t believe that monster was there while you were there,” said Simone. Her wide-set eyes seemed to grow even wider. “I wish you didn’t have to go alone.”

Nathalie ran her fingers through her hair. “Me, too. Unfortunately there’s no other way, practically speaking.”

Simone stopped pacing. “I know, it’s just…”

She didn’t have to finish. Nathalie understood. Her stomach gurgled again just thinking about it. Did the killer witness her having that first vision? Did he notice when she was summoned by M. Gagnon? He must have been there, staring at her like everyone else, because her vision happened as soon as the little girl’s cry startled her. When did he leave? Did he follow her after M. Gagnon sent her off with a warning about the streets of Paris? She hugged herself tighter with each question.

“I hope they catch him,” Simone said, “because I want to be there when he meets Madame la Guillotine.”

“Front of the crowd,” Nathalie added. She imagined herself first watching the blade fall on the killer’s neck, then rushing up to the platform. She’d grab the head afterward and slap his cheek, like that man had done to the assassin Charlotte Corday, then …

Simone tapped her. “Did you hear what I said?”

Nathalie shook her head.

“I said,” Simone began in an exasperated tone, “the letter was sent when only one victim was in the morgue. By the time it was published, the second victim was on display. ‘Until the next one, I remain.’ Who’s the ‘next one’ … the second victim?”

“Could be. I’m sure it’s ambiguous on purpose.” Nathalie tucked in her elbows. “He’s probably sitting in his armchair right now, laughing to himself because he knows all of Paris is talking about it over dinner tonight.”

Simone flopped down on the sofa, kicking up a small amount of dust as she did so. Her eyes filled with excitement. “If he does kill a third time, maybe you can help the police.”

“But how? I don’t have any clues. It’s not like that.”

Simone squeezed Nathalie’s elbow. “Just tell them what you see.”

Nathalie thought about M. Gagnon, sitting tall in his liaison office chair, and what he would say if she went to him. In the course of a few seconds, she pictured scenes ranging from him scratching his jaw and jotting down notes to polite-but-firm instructions to place her arms in the straitjacket if she wouldn’t mind.

“Do you really think anyone would believe me?” Nathalie asked.

Simone relaxed her grip.

“And what am I seeing, anyway?” Nathalie’s shoulders dropped. “A murder scene in reverse … but we don’t know if it’s real or if it exists outside of my own mind.”

“Assume it’s real. Why not? It’s real to you.”

“You’re the one who told me, ever since I made old Madame Mercier think Stanley was a ghost cat haunting the stairwell, what a good imagination I have.” Nathalie smiled at the memory, even if it was a little bit mean, because Mme. Mercier had been, too. And Stanley, being white, did make a good ghost cat.

“Stranger things have happened,” said Simone. “Remember those stories about the fraud doctor—what was his name? Henard?—and the blood transfusions that gave people temporary magical powers?”

“That was just some craze. And required a medical procedure.”

Simone spread her arms out wide. “Yes, but what I’m saying is … you wouldn’t be the first person to have some kind of extraordinary ability. If he could make it in a laboratory, who’s to say you don’t just have it?” She leaned forward. “Maybe you stop rejecting the idea that this isn’t real and embrace the possibility that it might be. Stop fighting it.”

“The police would think I’m unhinged. Wouldn’t they?”

Simone dropped her voice to a whisper. “They don’t have to know it’s you.”