Spectacle(30)

She reached into her bag for the tube of catacomb dirt. For peace. For good luck. For something, whatever it could offer her right now. She wrapped her fingers around the glass vial, willing the perceived fortune to travel up her arm and spread throughout her body.

Suddenly Nathalie felt like she was being watched. Her eyes went to M. Gagnon, standing guard beside his black velvet curtain. He met her gaze without looking away and then smiled like someone who was in on a secret.

Nathalie returned the smile.

“If you want to gawk at him instead of the bodies,” said a gruff voice to her right, “move over and let someone else see.”

Heat slinked up her neck and onto her cheeks. She turned to see a stout man, a few days’ worth of stubble circling his pout, behind her. “Je suis désolée,” she said, but he waved off her apology.

Nathalie peeked over her shoulder at M. Gagnon as she left the morgue. His eyes were fixed on the third victim. She’d never observed him studying the bodies before. If anything, he’d always seemed indifferent, probably so he wouldn’t go mad seeing corpses all day. A colleague entered the display room and spoke, startling him.

The testy little man who shooed her along was coming toward the exit. He glared at her and opened his mouth to speak. Her priority was getting to Simone, not engaging with this undersized fool, so she hurried out the door and shut it before he could get through.

The flurry of curse words that followed her across the street told her, quite clearly, that she’d timed it just right.



* * *



Maman was at the tailor shop visiting her friends, so Nathalie took advantage of the solitude and wrote her column from home. After she changed into her trousers, she examined her reflection—not for vanity, but to make sure she was convincingly not a girl.

Her dark waves were tucked into a wool felt cap, making her long neck appear even longer. The trousers, tan and roomy, dropped over her sturdy shoes. This pair of trousers was several centimeters too short (she should have listened to Maman and waited until morning to hem them, but she’d mistakenly assumed she was skilled enough to do it in the dim candlelight). A straight-fitting white shirt, cuffs folded back, completed the ruse.

She grabbed her satchel, put it on like a messenger bag, and made her way to the steam tram depot.

Although Nathalie could pass as a boy from several meters away, a closer look would suggest otherwise; her features were undoubtedly those of a young woman. Dusted with freckles. A petite, slightly rounded nose, just like Maman. High, almost severe cheekbones, also from her mother. Inquisitive brown eyes, like Papa, but with long lashes.

From the chin down, she looked very much like a boy when she dressed the part. Being lanky and small-busted, for better or for worse, helped. A dainty chimera.

It was interesting, having to dress this way. Not every girl would have agreed to it. Agnès, always ladylike and well-dressed, envied the job but almost certainly wouldn’t wear boy clothes for it or any other position. Simone probably would not only agree to it but embrace it unflinchingly, pretend it was a role (as she encouraged Nathalie to do), and somehow still be eminently feminine. As for Nathalie, she loved it as much as she hated it; wearing these clothes both empowered and embarrassed her.

Strolling freely across the floor of Le Petit Journal in costume, that part was amusing. She enjoyed playing a joke on dozens of people day in and day out. Not to mention, she was curious as to whether any of them guessed, or at least pondered, if that gangly “errand boy” was actually a girl. Writing a column that around a million people read made her proud. If dressing like a young man was what it took, then it was worth it.

Yet she hated obscuring her identity for no good reason. Dressing as a boy to earn respect, or to avoid disrespect, was not a good reason. It was an unfortunate reason.

Someday she would march through the doors of Le Petit Journal, head held high, in whatever feminine attire she wanted to wear. Maybe she’d walk into an important meeting wearing a long, flowing silk brocade skirt that Maman would praise, hair piled elegantly on her head, wearing ornate, graceful shoes with heels like she saw at Le Bon Marché. With the heels she’d tower over most of her fellow journalists and be eye-to-eye with the rest.

But today she was sixteen, in trousers and a cap, and walking quickly with her head down. M. Patenaude wasn’t in his office, so she left her article with Arianne, who handed over some mail. The first few days Nathalie worked at the paper, she’d been excited to get mail, until she realized it was nothing more than advertisements, the occasional donation request, and internal memos that had nothing to do with her. She tossed the mail in her bag and left.

Finally she could go to Simone’s. They’d devised a strategy: If there was a third victim, she’d get Simone and go back to the morgue. That way Simone could listen to whatever it was she mumbled during the vision and try to make sense of it.

Nathalie jogged up the stairs to Simone’s apartment. She tapped on the door like a woodpecker, which Simone never found as amusing as Nathalie did.

Simone opened the door, pursing her lips before she spoke. “Normal people knock, you know.”

“That’s why I don’t,” Nathalie said, poking Simone’s shoulder. She entered the apartment. “I hope I didn’t wake you. Did I?”

Simone waved her hand. “The neighbors upstairs had a door-slamming fight about twenty minutes ago. That woke me. I was going to get up soon anyway.” Studying Nathalie’s anxious face, her eyes widened. “Are you here for the reason I think you’re here?”