Spectacle(44)

Nathalie frowned. “Why?”

“Say you were afraid of snakes because you’d been bitten by one as a child. I could help you to forget that episode, but your mind would still fear snakes, though you wouldn’t understand why.”

“That’s worse.”

M. Lebeau nodded empathetically. “Perhaps you can use the session to try to make peace with those events.”

“I doubt that,” Nathalie said, but then she reconsidered. She’d come this far, and there was no harm in seeing if that was possible. “Let’s try that, then.”

“Good,” said M. Lebeau. “Do note that during hypnosis you may share things you wouldn’t in a fully conscious state.”

“I understand. May we begin?”

“In a moment.” M. Lebeau stood up, disappeared into the room where his wife had gone, and returned with a long pipe and a large, covered bowl. “Opium. I like to clear my head before each session.”

Was that what his wife was doing back there?

“Doesn’t that cloud your thinking instead?”

“Only if I have too much, which I never do while I’m working. With just the right amount my mind opens up like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. That’s how I prepare to set your mind free, make it even more open than my own. Would you like some opium as well?”

Nathalie shook her head vigorously.

“Very well.” M. Lebeau tapped the sides of the bowl, studying her. “Are you ready, Mademoiselle Baudin?”

“No. I—I don’t think I can do this.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Her tongue tripped over the excuses and unfurled the truth. “Because I’m afraid.”

“Close your eyes,” said M. Lebeau in a placid tone, exhaling smoke. “And we’ll work on helping you find peace. Shall we?”

There was a kindness about him, a tenderness in his voice, that was grandfatherly and reassuring. He reminded her of a sweet librarian, long since dead, who’d recommended books to her and Papa years ago.

“Yes,” she said, reclining on the sofa, eyes closed. “I’m ready.”

In a moment she heard nothing at all, as if the books lining the walls had shushed the sounds of Paris so Nathalie could, at last, retreat into herself.



* * *



“You are floating on a cloud. Carefree, comfortable, and safe,” began M. Lebeau. His voice, melodic and serene, dissolved the silence. “The sound of my voice will guide you, show you where your mind can go. Relax on that cloud. Feel yourself, lighter than air. Your feet. Your legs. Your back, shoulders, neck. Your head. All are cradled by this peaceful, protective cloud. You are content.”

Nathalie’s breathing steadied into a calm, deep rhythm. The cloud was softer than any pillow she’d ever touched, the sky surrounding her was more beautiful than any blue she’d seen in nature or in art.

“I’m going to tap your shoulder. When I do, our journey will begin on a field of grass.”

A hand touched her shoulder, then it was gone.

She stood on vivid grass, cascading green as far as the eye could see.

“Behind you there is a house. Go inside. You will see someone, someone close to you. Someone who helps you. That person will embrace you.”

She turned around to see a small white house with black shutters and a red door. As soon as she walked inside Simone kissed her on both cheeks.

The voice, this voice that she somehow wanted to obey without understanding why, was peaceful. “Who is there?”

“Simone.” Nathalie heard her own voice. Somehow she heard it, even if she didn’t feel as if she were speaking.

“Simone is there to help you put things into a box. There’s a large box in the center of the room, and there are rocks beside it. You are going to open it, and then you’re going to fill it up with rocks. The rocks are your memories, the ones you wish to forget. If a rock is too heavy, Simone will help you.”

Nathalie walked to the center of the room and knelt down. She picked up a small rock and put it into the box. A memory of standing in line at the morgue.

Then another, then another. Entering the morgue, walking up to the viewing pane. A rock into the box, a child crying behind her at the morgue.

A rock with more weight. A girl on the cement slab, viciously ripped by a knife. What was her name?

Another rock, heavier than the last. A child’s screech of terror.

Another rock, this one jagged. Touching the viewing pane.

Another rock, this one too heavy. Simone extended a hand to help. Odette on the slab shrieking, bloody, getting bludgeoned by a knife.

She dropped the rock and screamed. Simone leaned in and turned into Aunt Brigitte with the word INSIGHT branded on her forehead. Nathalie stood up and the floor turned into sand and she stood knee-deep in the sea. A wave crashed at her feet and pulled her into the water, away from the beach and into the dark and frothy depths. She screamed until she went under and suddenly she was aware of M. and Mme. Lebeau holding her hands in the room full of books and telling her, in soothing tones, that she was safe.

Rawness spread in her throat. She stood up, just as she had during the hypnotic—dream? Vision? What was it? Something different than sleeping, different from the morgue visions. Yet another place her mind could go.