Spectacle(29)

Aunt Brigitte stared at her niece without blinking. “I know what I saw. I wanted to save the baby.”

“What did you see?” Nathalie’s tone was more apprehensive than intended.

Aunt Brigitte, after a quick glance at her roommates, motioned for Nathalie to come near.

“He was about to drown the child,” she hissed. “The priest was getting ready to drown the child in the baptismal font. Do you know why?”

Nathalie was so close she wondered if Aunt Brigitte could hear her pounding heart. Priest? Baptismal font?

“It was his child. The mother was a nun. They were about to murder the child, right there in church, after baptizing it.” She placed her hand on Nathalie’s shoulder and pulled her closer yet. Her voice dropped to something just above a whisper. “If I hadn’t trembled and dropped the knife, I could have slit both their throats. And saved the baby.”

Nathalie stopped breathing.

It took her a few seconds to realize it.

“I ran away screaming. They didn’t even come after me.” Aunt Brigitte let go of Nathalie and sat back. “But they drowned the baby anyway. I hid in the bushes and watched them leave with the body. I would have tried again to kill them if I still had the knife.”

Nathalie stepped back, swallowing hard. This wasn’t Maman’s story.

Aunt Brigitte clutched Nathalie’s wrist. “Why did you ask?”

“I—I didn’t know anything about this. Maman said you saw things, and she only told me about the Seine, and—”

“The Seine!” Her voice became as sharp as a sword. “Jealousy! Misunderstanding! He was a good man but they didn’t see that.”

Nathalie was even more confused. “He? The man you—”

She wanted to say the word “attacked” but stopped short. Aunt Brigitte’s face fell.

“I know what I saw!” she cried.

Aunt Brigitte repeated I know what I saw over and over again, her cries erupting into heaving sobs. A nurse rushed in and tried to calm her down but it was too late.

The wailing only intensified.

Nathalie slowly retreated out of the room. Trust no one. Tante had a reason for saying that. It was somehow connected to this, her insanity, whatever it was that put her here.

Aunt Brigitte’s roommate emerged from the room pulling her own hair, then reached for Nathalie’s.

“No,” said Nathalie, extending her hand. The woman frowned and began to moan. She can’t speak. Nathalie hurried away from her and down the hall.

Aunt Brigitte’s screams chased her right into the elevator.





13


Nathalie arranged the last of the newspaper clippings, straightened out the pile, and began to write her letter.

Dear Agnès,

They are calling him the Dark Artist—and he has taken to the name. I needn’t explain why, as the enclosed articles will explain everything. I would not advocate reading them prior to sleep, as you may have nightmares. I have had many.

Do you think I have been casual in the sharing of it? Careful, perhaps. Or it could be that the journalist in me is accustomed to taking on the tone of reporting when I write. Thank you for your kind words about my articles (I have included others).

You asked if I am thrilled. I have to say, this is without a doubt the most exciting set of experiences I have undergone directly.



Nathalie paused. Would that suffice? Sending Agnès a number of articles, answering questions she asked directly … that should satisfy her curiosity. She hoped.

Bastille Day—I watched some of the parade on my way to work. It could have been my perception, but the crowd seemed thinner and more subdued this year.

I’ve been thinking about the ocean. What does it feel like to stand in the sand, amidst the waves? Papa spends time on the sea, but rarely in it, and certainly not on holiday. I imagine the ocean water to be refreshing and powerful. How does it smell to you? Salty, I know. Papa says as much. What does that mean to you, though? It cannot be like the salt and water Maman makes me gargle when I have a sore throat. There must be more to it.

Those violet confections sound divine. Enjoy one on my behalf. I promise to dedicate my next pain au chocolat to you, in honor of sharing one together upon your return.

Bayeux sounds utterly charming. Vikings. I shall ask Maman to fashion a Viking hat for me for my visit next summer. What do you say of that?

Bisous,

Nata



A Viking hat. Nathalie chuckled as she put the paper and articles into an envelope. She could picture herself walking around a little town with it, Agnès laughing but mortified.

Maybe next summer would indeed be very different from this one.



* * *



The Dark Artist’s third exhibit was far more grisly than the previous two.

If Odette appalled onlookers and Victim #2 magnified the savagery, then the atrocity committed on this girl’s body spoke for all of them. Her inky hair was in a long, messy braid. It cascaded down her right shoulder and over her exposed breast, framing the deep, reddish-black ear-to-collarbone cut. She had the facial bruising of the others. What used to be her left temple was now a fist-sized cavity outlined in crimson and black.

Nathalie didn’t touch the glass, however, because she and Simone had a plan. Yet she felt an unexpected tickle of desire. The vision was there, hers for the taking, if she wanted it. She shook her head forcefully, as if doing so would remove such thoughts.