Chameleon (7 page)

The old man regarded Will. “Napoleon was
la France
,” he said, as if he’d thrown down a glove and now waited for Will to retrieve it. The exchange left me puzzled, but Will nodded as if conceding the point.

“But we gave you Paris in 1944, so we’re even,” said Will.

“
Touché
,” whispered the gentleman, a hint of a smile as he gazed at Will.

The old man fixed Mickie with an imperious gaze. “As for my knowing the name of your brother,
chère Mademoiselle
Mackenzie, I took care that I should know both his name and his identity before revealing myself.”

Here he turned from Mickie to gaze upon me.

“
Bonjour Mademoiselle
,” he said.

“
Bonjour
, Sir Walter,” I said politely. Then I blushed and stammered. “I mean
Monsieur de Rocheforte
.”

“
Non, non
,” he said. “You have not misspoken. But how did you know of my knighthood?”

“Knighthood?” asked Mickie.

“We didn’t know at all,” said Will. “I, uh, started referring to you as ‘Sir Walter’ back home. I got everyone else in the habit. Sorry.”

“As a speaker of English, it is most fit you would adjust my name from Waldhart to Walter.” A smile twitched along his mouth. “And you are welcome to continue to address me by my title as Sir Walter.” The small smile grew to a larger one.

He turned back to study me. “This is a cousin perhaps?” he asked Will and Mickie. “Not, I think, your sister.”

“Samantha is our friend,” Will said. Lowering his voice he whispered, “She’s the one we wrote you about.”

Sir Walter’s mouth curved upwards. “
Mademoiselle Samanthe, Waldhart Jean–Baptiste de Rochefort, à vôtre service
.”

My face heated, from trying not to laugh at his old–fashioned manners.

“Okay, listen. So, how do we know you are who you say you are?” Mickie asked.

Sir Walter shrugged—a gesture the French should totally trademark—and answered. “You cannot, of course. You can only accept that before you is the man with whom you have corresponded, or you can choose not to accept. Allow me, however, to point out that if I wished to do you harm, that could have been accomplished several hours ago. I also know which one of you I would keep hold of as a hostage should I wish to force your brother and friend to remain in solid form.”

“You watched us upstairs, inside the castle, when we were alone,” I said.

He looked puzzled. “I did, indeed, watch you and your friends,
Mademoiselle
, but only whilst you were out of doors.”

“You placed yourself in my path while you were invisible,” said Will.

“Your reactions helped me to be sure of your identities,” Sir Walter said. “I never form an acquaintance without reassuring myself that there has been no trap lain for me by a clever enemy.”

“Dude.” Will smiled. “You’re going to get along great with my sister.”

Mickie frowned, uncertain whether to trust him.

“But
Mademoiselle Samanthe
, what is this you say of being watched indoors?”

“We noticed—Will and I noticed—an icy presence in the castle.”

Sir Walter’s brows drew together ever so slightly. “I should have made a more thorough search.” His heavy lids closed and he seemed to disappear inside himself. Then he opened his eyes again. “You appear to have captured the interest of a person with whom I am well acquainted. Him, I have found relatively harmless, all things considered. He fears me greatly.” The French gentleman smiled and drew himself tall. “You are to consider yourselves under my protection. Whether you can see me or not, I shall guard your well–being.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer to protect us,” said Mickie. You could see it on her face: she was stuck halfway between impressed that the French gentleman had bad–guy radar and worried he wouldn’t be able to offer much assistance.

“Not at all,” said Sir Walter, bowing. “Pfeffer would have expected it.”

“How do you ‘see’ an invisible person’s identity?” asked Will.

The Frenchman shrugged. “Assuming I have already encountered the person, it is simple enough for me to recognize the signature of their thoughts, while they are invisible.”

“Simple for you,” murmured Will, his admiration evident.

“Okay,” said Mickie. “So that brings me to my next problem. Assuming you’re Sir Walter, I need to know why we should trust you. For starters, why did Professor Pfeffer trust you?”

Sir Walter made a small sort of laugh. “You might turn that question on its head and ask why I trusted him. However, to answer your question, he trusted me from the moment I saved his life.” He smiled as if he would say no more on that subject. “I believe there is an hour before you depart with your group?”

We nodded.

“It would be well if we conversed in privacy, yes?” Gesturing with a sweep of his hand, Sir Walter led us off the main roadway, to the side path we’d seen him upon minutes ago.

We arrived at a small arrangement of iron chairs and a table and sat.

“On the occasion of our last visit together, Doctor Pfeffer confided to me his discovery of yourself and your brother. He spoke of you in terms of highest praise.” His smile turned downwards as if he were now remembering something unpleasant. “We agreed that should he find himself in danger, he would leave important documents in your keeping and that I should contact you in this event. He spoke of his plan to obtain a record of Helmann’s experiments upon children during the Second World War. I attempted to dissuade him, to point out the danger of drawing attention to himself by such a theft, but he would not listen.”

“He was stubborn,” said Mickie.

“Look who’s talking,” mumbled Will.

“A strong will is a great asset,” said Sir Walter, his mouth pulling into half a smile. “Especially for one without other genetic gifts.
Mademoiselle
, I understand you do not share your brother’s abilities?”

Mickie shook her head. “I can’t ripple.”

“You are not a ‘chameleon’?” Sir Walter asked. “That is the word I use. Quite aside from the chameleon’s ability to disappear, the creature was for centuries thought to live by consuming only air.” He laughed softly to himself. “What is your word again? Ree–pill?”

“Ripple. It’s like when you disturb a pool of water, you know, the ripples that flow out. That’s what it looks like when Will disappears,” Mickie replied.

“Of course. A good word. Especially as there is no verb–form of ‘chameleon.’ Trust my young friend Pfeffer to find a better word in the language of his new home,” said Sir Walter.

“It’s
my
word,” snapped Mickie. “Pfeffer referred to Will’s ability as ‘the phenomenon’ before I told him my word.”

Will guffawed at his sister’s prickliness.

Sir Walter spoke gently. “He would have been only too quick to credit you, my dear, were he here with us now.”

Mickie’s eyes dropped. The kind words about her former advisor appeased her. “Okay, listen,” she said. “I believe you’re Sir Walter. I believe Pfeffer trusted you. But for the love of all that’s holy, why didn’t you stick to our plan to meet up in Amboise?”

“Ah, yes.” Sir Walter looked self–consciously at the table–top before us. “I have waited so long. You must forgive me for meeting you thus unannounced. I found I preferred to wait no longer. You must forgive an impatient old man; the old are of course incorrigible.” He smiled at us and then turned his gaze towards the sky, now clear of clouds.

Mickie stared at him for a moment and then guffawed. “Yeah, okay, we forgive you.”

Sir Walter returned his gaze from the heavens. His lips tightened and thinned as he addressed us. “I am in hopes that you have brought the manuscript for which I believe my dear friend was killed.”

The black book. Now came the moment of truth. Did Mickie trust Sir Walter enough to hand over the writings?

She stared hard at the old gentleman, then slowly nodding her head, she withdrew the book from her bag and surrendered it to him.

“We had trouble reading it,” she said.

Sir Walter’s lip curled into a smile. “I should imagine. It is the language of my youth, spoken in Helmann’s childhood, but no longer common.”

Suddenly I was the one with trust issues. “You’re not … you aren’t the man who wrote it, are you?” The words tumbled out, echoing like an accusation.

Sir Walter looked up from the black book at my question. “No, child. I am not Helmann. But he and I have a shared history; he is my cousin, whom I once knew as
Girard L’Inferne
.”

The cold iron of the chair made its way through my jeans, and I shivered, pulling my scarf higher.

Sir Walter spoke. “For a very long time, Pfeffer urged me to act upon knowledge I held regarding my cousin, the man credited with discovering the chameleon disease. To my shame I did nothing. Or very little. At great personal risk, Pfeffer obtained this record of offenses with which he hoped to damn my cousin.”

“I’m sorry to doubt you, but no way did Pfeffer risk death just to show the world how some dead Nazi–dude used to be evil,” said Will.

“Dead?” Sir Walter looked at us, gaze intense. “No, unfortunately Helmann is very much alive. And more dangerous than ever.” Sir Walter took out a small French cigarette. “Do you mind?”

None of us had the nerve to tell him he couldn’t smoke.

“How old would you say I am?” he asked.

“We were expecting someone in their upper–eighties,” said Mickie. “But you look maybe fifty.”

“You’re older than that, aren’t you?” I asked.

“You three have discovered one of the advantages of being a chameleon?” replied Sir Walter. “I’m surprised Pfeffer taught you of this.”

“He didn’t,” said Will. “Sam thought of it.”

I’d suggested that maybe Will looked younger than his eighteen years because he’d spent so much time invisible when he was little.

“You will not age during the minutes or hours when you
ree–pill
, as you call it,” said Sir Walter.

Mickie’s face had gone pale. “So Helmann is a
chameleon
as well?”

Sir Walter nodded. “Very well deduced,
Mademoiselle
.”

“Helmann, the same Helmann, now controls Geneses,” Mickie said, looking anxious. “Of course.
Of course.
He alone was able to distinguish between Helmann’s disease and leprosy in an age where genes couldn’t be examined. He understood the difference because he was a carrier himself.”

“Precisely,” said Sir Walter.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking,” said Mickie, “how old exactly are you and Dr. Helmann?”

“We were born to sisters–in–law in the same year, being the tenth after the onset of the Papal Schism,” he replied.

“No way.” Will laughed at the old man.

I didn’t get the joke.

“As in,
the
Papal Schism?” asked Mickie, looking doubtful.

Will turned to me. “The Papal Schism occurred when two separate Popes were elected following the removal of the Papal court from Avignon, France back to Rome. Only that’s impossible.” He squinted, looking at Sir Walter. “That would make you …” He broke off, trying to calculate.

“I am a quarter–century past my six–hundredth birthday,” Sir Walter announced, wreathing all of us in the smoke of his
gauloises
cigarette.

Excerpted from My Father’s Brilliant Journey, by Helga Gottlieb

Early Years

In speaking of my father’s development as the Savior of Mankind, it is impossible to underestimate the importance of his early years; that is, the years prior to age sixteen, when he began to live regularly as a chameleon.

My father was the only child of a nobleman’s second son born at the close of the 14th century, CE.* Underprivileged, as such families of younger sons often were, my father also lost his parents during the conflicts with Northern Frenchmen and was raised through the so–called charity of his aunt, the Lady de Rochefort, wealthy and of noble birth. Her own daughter, Helisaba (or Elisabeth) de Rochefort, eventually became wife to my father.

But for years prior to my father’s accession to a noble inheritance, he had to endure the petty injuries and daily insults accompanying the lives of those born in unfortunate circumstances. His cousin Waldhart (later known as Walter de Rochefort) in particular delighted in inventing new torments for the young Girard.

Chief of these was the unfortunate appending to my father’s name of “L’Inferne.” The nickname, alternately translatable as “fire,” “fiery one,” “Hell,” or even, “Hell–ish one,” ultimately became adopted by my father as part of the name by which we know him today. So, while the miscreant Waldhart intended the name as a form of abuse, ultimately my father transcended his cousin’s intentions and adopted the name by which we have all been saved, Girard Helmann.

*In fairness to my father’s system of beliefs, I could use A.D., but as I myself am not a believer in such antiquated constructs, I choose to use the designation “Christian Era” instead of Anno Domini, or “Year of our Lord.” It is my hope to bring about a system of B.H.E. or Before Helmannic Era and P.H.E. or Post Helmannic Era in the future.

“The destruction of the Mayan Empire,” said Will, the following morning. “And Timbuktu, the Battle of Agincourt, the Turkish capture of Constantinople, the Spanish Armada …” Will continued chanting his strange rosary as we made the short hike from the Castle of Amboise to the smaller Clos–Lucé, final home of Leonardo da Vinci. We’d all slept remarkably well, considering that we’d met a six–hundred–year–old man the previous day.

“What’s he muttering about?” I asked Mickie.

She shrugged. “Who knows? Used to fall asleep with a copy of Encyclopedia Britannica on his face.”

“Does he do this reciting thing often, then?”

Will broke off at “Hideyoshi attacks Korea,” and turned to Mickie and me. “Don’t you see? These are all events Sir Walter
lived
through—things he heard about first–hand. It’s
amazing!
” His arms flew wide like he was conducting a symphony.