Spectacle(43)

“It will be fine.”

She turned to the voice over her shoulder and saw a red-haired young man with a knowing grin.

“Monsieur Carre,” she said, overly formal on purpose. She peeked over his shoulder to see if Simone was nearby. Thankfully not. “Fancy that we should meet here of all places.”

“Oh,” he began, waving his hand. “I followed you.”

“You what?”

“Not like that.” Louis smoothed his crisp white shirt collar. “I work at The Quill, the bookshop back there. I saw you pass by and called to you, although I suppose you didn’t hear me…” His words ticked up the scale of uncertainty.

Nathalie remembered passing a bookshop. She hadn’t heard anyone call after her, but then again, she’d been focused on her task. The area was raucous, with shop owners luring customers and women shouting conversations across the alley from one third-floor window to the next. “I didn’t hear you.”

“The street can be noisy at times. I—I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment. Simone told me that the two of you—”

“Please, Monsieur Carre—”

“Louis.”

“Louis. Please. I don’t wish to discuss Simone. And if you’ll excuse me, I have—I have something to tend to,” she said, glancing up the stairs.

His smile slipped from knowing to wry. Simone hadn’t told him about the visions, had she?

“I went to him once,” Louis said, in that conspiratorial way of his. “You’re somewhere between dreaming and wakefulness. The old man puffs opium but is harmless.”

Opium? Nathalie gazed up the stairs and took her foot off the step. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She’d heard stories of people smoking opium but didn’t know much about it other than what Papa had shared from a trip to China: People gathering in rooms, lounging about on pillows, puffing away until they talked about things like flowers that cackled and houses that cried.

How could an opium smoker concentrate well enough to do hypnosis?

“I apologize for startling you, Nathalie. Simone is upset by the rift, and—maybe you two can talk sometime, that’s all. Good luck with the hypnosis.” Louis nodded a farewell and strolled back the way they came. Nathalie watched his fiery hair bob through the crowd, down the first turn, and out of sight.

A rat darted out from under the stairs, spooking her. It spotted the tawny cat and disappeared behind a sack.

Go. If he can make you forget you ever had visions at the morgue, then it’s worth trying no matter what he smokes.

She marched up the steps and knocked on the door.





19


“Hypnotism or phrenology?” came a high-pitched male voice from behind the door. Before Nathalie could answer, the door swung open and a slender, gray-haired man with glasses, rosy cheeks, and a brown suit that had seen better days smiled at her.

“Uh, hypnotism,” she said, glancing back down the stairwell.

“Excellent!” He invited her to enter. “I did three phrenology readings today and am ready for a good hypnosis. étienne Lebeau, by the way, as you know from the sign.”

Nathalie introduced herself and stepped into a cavernous room lined with columns of books. They resembled crooked little smokestacks, covering all but the windows. She glanced at the titles at the top of the piles closest to her. Neurypnology. Was that a word? Suggestive Therapeutics: A Treatise on the Nature and Uses of Hypnotism. Boring. Enchanted Science or Science Enchanted? Sounded like a riddle. On the Origin of Species. At least that one she’d heard of.

“Please, come sit,” said M. Lebeau, gesturing to a gold damask sofa. “Have you ever undergone hypnosis before?”

“I have not.”

“Splendid!” he said, clasping his hands. He then described the process: that he would guide her to a relaxing state of mind, that he would use the sound of his voice to reach her, and that she couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything that would violate her free will.

A white-haired woman with bulging eyes and dozens of beaded necklaces stepped out of the back room. “I’m Madame Geneviève Lebeau,” she said, straightening out her floral dress. She then took Nathalie’s hand, warmly, and spoke in a near whisper. “May you find peace.”

With that she beamed and shuffled over to the maroon drapes, closing them. Grayness swaddled the room like a blanket of mist. Sunlight crept around the edges of the drapes and created shadows where there hadn’t been any before. Mme. Lebeau slipped into one of them and disappeared into the back room.

M. Lebeau took a seat across from her in a wooden chair and, placing his hands on his knees, leaned toward her. “Now for the most important question of all. What are you hoping to achieve in today’s session?”

“I want to forget some events I experienced.” On the way here, she’d explored all the possible ways to answer this question. This response seemed the most careful while still allowing her to be truthful.

“May I ask what kind of events?”

She turned her head to the side as if he’d sneezed on her. This, too, was deliberate. “Violent, criminal things. Please understand that it’s difficult for me to discuss.”

“Oh,” he said, lowering his voice. “I won’t pry. I should tell you, however, that forgetting an event doesn’t mean letting go of the fear of that event.”