Spectacle(37)

“Can you believe it?” said Simone, who, Nathalie just now noticed, had been watching her.

“No,” said Nathalie in an even voice, mustering a small smile. She uprooted her limbs to get a closer view. Every cut on the victims’ faces was rendered carefully.

“They just unveiled it a few days ago. I was hoping you hadn’t seen the posters. Louis was right. It’s so realistic, isn’t it?”

Nathalie had been to the museum many times before, just like she’d been to the morgue before she wrote for Le Petit Journal. She’d seen displays of crime scenes and battles and pieces of Parisian life. Everything was a potential tableau at the Musée Grévin; she should have expected it.

Who knows, thought Nathalie. The victims themselves may even have come here before they died. Or to the morgue itself, to gaze at the corpses they’d join.

“Almost too realistic.” Had her own reports been used as a reference in its creation? She wondered if the artist who created the molds studied the morgue’s photographs, if M. Gagnon himself handed him the documentation pictures. Or perhaps the artist stood there, in the viewing room, sketching. “Why—why did you want to show me this?”

“So you could see what you write about, what you experience, through the eyes of an artist,” Simone said. “I thought you might be impressed, maybe even find it thrilling.”

Nathalie didn’t answer. She felt redness spill across her cheeks.

“I meant to ask,” continued Simone, “what did you send to the police—something about the gloves and the decorative table? Oh, and that her name is Mirabelle, naturally. Yes?”

“I didn’t send anything to the police this time,” said Nathalie.

Simone raised a brow. “Oh. When you do, then.”

“I won’t be.” She made the decision as she said it. “I’m not doing this anymore. I—I can’t.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning I’m tired of the ghastly visions, the constant what-ifs, the dishonesty, the realization that I’m seeing through a killer’s eyes, feeling what he feels, and saying his words, all of it.” Including a letter possibly threatening my life. “I’m not going to give up pieces of my memory now, too. That’s losing my mind, Simone.”

Nathalie closed her eyes, squeezing back the tears she was afraid would fall. She expected to feel Simone’s arm around her shoulder or to be drawn into a hug.

“I don’t understand,” said Simone, shaking her head. “You’re … giving up your power?”

Nathalie stood up straighter. The urge to cry disappeared like an extinguished flame. “I’m not giving up. I’m making a choice. Every peak is followed by a valley, can’t you see that?”

Simone nodded, but it felt like she was humoring her instead of trying to understand. Simone seemed to be humoring her a lot these days.

“And now memory?” Nathalie folded her arms. “That’s quite a sacrifice, and for what?”

“Because you have a chance to help.”

“We don’t know that. So far it hasn’t been much help to anyone. It’s not like I’ve solved the case. Rugs and tables aren’t going to solve a case.”

“We knew this wouldn’t be easy.” Simone lowered her voice and rested her fingertips on Nathalie’s wrist. “It even came up in the tarot cards. Remember the Hangman? Self-sacrifice, changing how you think?”

Nathalie jerked her wrist away from Simone. “They’re only tarot cards, Simone. A parlor trick. Just because the cards mention sacrifice, that doesn’t mean I should just accept losing my mind.”

“I never said that!” Simone’s voice rose so quickly that two women stopped talking. They stared for a moment before resuming their conversation.

“Not in those words.” Nathalie folded her arms. “It sounds to me like I should be doing what the cards say I should be doing. Feeling what they say I should feel.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Simone, rolling her eyes.

I hate it when she rolls her eyes. “Then what do you mean?”

“If you’d let me finish a sentence, I’ll tell you.” Simone threw up her hands theatrically.

“No need for the flourish,” said Nathalie, mocking Simone’s gesture. “Just say what you want to say.”

Simone gritted her teeth. “Stop interrupting and I will.”

One of the gaping women whispered something to the other. “Occupez-vous de vos oignons,” Nathalie snapped. Rarely did she tell people to take care of their own onions, so to speak, but these women deserved it. She waited until they turned away before continuing. “I’m done interrupting, Simone. Please explain to me whatever it is you want me to believe.”

Simone looked from the tableau to Nathalie. “This is an atrocious set of crimes. You can do something about it. Not many people can; they just go to the morgue to gawk and gossip afterward. I don’t think you should give up that gift so easily.”

“Easily.” Nathalie sneered. “Nothing about this is easy.”

“I didn’t say that it was!” Simone rolled her eyes.

Again.

“Where has sensible Nathalie gone?” Simone continued. “First you have us chasing an eccentric man with a rat all over the city, and now you’re putting words in my mouth and arguing with me. Why are you acting this way?”