Spectacle(34)

Every day added another block of iron to the weight of this power. The luster of excitement was dulling, little by little.

Nathalie watched her mother, her scarred hands holding the fork awkwardly, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth that had grown more pronounced this summer. And while Maman complained that Nathalie was too thin, her own dresses hung more loosely these days. Her focus seemed to be understandably inward lately.

So there they sat, few words between them, each with her own set of worries.

She couldn’t stop thinking of M. Gloves. It irked her that Simone had dismissed her suspicions. They were valid, and she didn’t understand why Simone disagreed. That fingertip-tapping, whistling man. Were his eyes the ones through which she’d seen My pretty Mirabelle? Had she sensed his presence while having the vision? Was that why she felt so strongly about him?

Or maybe she’d made a mistake today about the white gloves in the vision. Perhaps she’d unconsciously seen M. Gloves on her way into the morgue. Her mind could have added that detail, the way Maman’s voice sometimes became part of a dream if she was waking Nathalie.

No. She had to trust that the vision was real or else … or else she didn’t know what. She’d become insane, that’s what. She was under duress, but she wasn’t mad. Besides, everything had been proven right and real so far. This episode shouldn’t be any different.

Nathalie hated the idea of speaking the murderer’s words during a vision. It made her feel unclean, intrusive. Too close to the mind of a killer.

She stared at the dull, benign knife in her hand, hovering over the plate. A knife. For cutting food. Meat. The face and neck of a young woman.

Her hand went limp and the knife fell, dropping onto the plate with a startling clang.

Maman and Stanley jumped. Nathalie apologized for the noise and excused herself from the table to finish a few chores.

Later that evening, when she reached in her bag for her journal, she pulled out a few papers and envelopes. She’d forgotten about her mail from Le Petit Journal. A charity, a reminder that the archive room was going to be reorganized, three advertisements. The last envelope was addressed to “Public Morgue Writer” like the advertising promotions, but had “A Fellow Writer” in the return address.

She opened it as she walked over to the wastebasket. Ouch!

The envelope sliced her finger. She licked the cut and unfolded the paper, ready to toss it in the trash, when her heart stopped like a painting, forever frozen in time.

My Dear Scribe,

Bravo on the columns. Nicely done, though you’re a bit shy with the descriptions of my work. Truly. Tell them about the sliced flesh, how it’s red, black, and purple, except where the rot has set in, where it’s of a brownish-green hue.

Tell them how the knife went in so deep it cut the bone.

Tell them how beautiful the girls once were, and how their delicate features have become grotesque death masks.

Tell them.

You would do well not to disappoint me.

Yours,

The Dark Artist





15


Nathalie practiced handing the letter to M. Patenaude a few times before leaving the apartment. At first she trembled during rehearsal, then she overcompensated by practically shoving it at the imaginary M. Patenaude.

When she actually stood there, in his office, she gave it to him almost as nonchalantly as she’d hoped. The paper shook only the tiniest bit as she offered it to him.

M. Patenaude took a long time to read it; clearly he reviewed it more than once. His glasses seemed thicker than usual today, and his expression was portrait-ready serious as he pursed his lips.

He looked up from the letter and put his glasses on top of his head. The motion was jerky, reminding Nathalie of a marionette. His words spilled out like water from a knocked-over glass. “We get a lot of mail from impostors.”

“How do you know the letters to ‘Paris’ from the Dark Artist are real?”

He paused. Just a beat. Just long enough to make Nathalie wonder why.

“We don’t know for certain,” he said. He took a cigarette out of a case on his desk and lit it. “Instinct plus an educated guess. If you stay in the newspaper business long enough, you know what feels right and what doesn’t.”

On the one hand, she found his answer frustrating. That’s it? On the other, it made sense. Policemen relied in part on instinct, as did chefs, bakers, and even seamstresses. Maman often spoke of making a dress as much from feel as from measurement. Why not reporters?

“Sometimes,” M. Patenaude added, exhaling some smoke, “it’s more art than science.”

Nathalie peeked out the window. Building after building, boulevard after boulevard. Somewhere out there was a long hallway with a navy-and-gold runner and a room with a fancy table bloodied from a crushed temple and a killer who wore white gloves. “Do you think this letter is real?”

He took his glasses off his head and rested them on a stack of papers. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

Her skin prickled in response. “How do you know?”

“I know truth when I see it, and this is truthful.” M. Patenaude opened his eyes and knocked some ash off his cigarette. “That being said, I need you to promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell anyone about the letter.” M. Patenaude’s tone was flat.