The Secret Book of Paradys (70 page)

“I expect so,” said the “uncle.” He lit another cigarette, the case a plaque of cold fire. “There were times when she was invited to dinners. She ate and drank like everyone else. Rather greedily in fact.”

“Were you ever present?”

“Thankfully, no. There was only one occasion … I had been warned, and so declined. That was when I heard the story first, four years ago. When you, dear boy, were only thirteen.”

“The worst years of my life. Tell me about Julie d’Is.”

The “uncle” began his tale in a manner quite unlike his means employed when writing. Chorgeh knew that the story, if it had been or were to be translated into printable prose, would gain ornament, elongation, and proper suspense. But as a raconteur, the writer was quite brisk, almost abbreviated. Mentally Chorgeh was not above adding a brushstroke here and there.

The parents of Julie d’Is had come from the colonies of the East, some place of fans and ivories, rice, camels, bazaars, and flying carpets. They had been disgraced, the family, or simply the father, in some gambling or speculating of a nature that was kept obscure in the City – the odd codes and
loyalties of the returned colonists, who would cut Monsieur d’Is, yet not betray him to outsiders. The d’Is child was female, and two years old, a weak infant mewling and puking in the tradition of weakly infants. The climate had seen to her as foolish villainy had her father; both were undone. Yet she continued, weakly, to persist, like a wan plant that straggles on, refusing to die and give up its pot to a nicer specimen. And certainly there were no other children. Shortly there began to be an exotic rumor, which was that the family had fallen afoul of a sorcerer in the Eastern lands. That just so the father lost his work and his name, and so the mother produced, from the huge burden of her womb, only the one ailing weed. Since no one spoke to the family d’Is, however, no one could verify the rumor.

Monsieur d’Is toiled as a clerk in a seedy business near the docks. Madame did her best. And the miserable daughter went on with a grisly graceless tenaciousness redolent not of courage or hope but of a dripping tap.

It was when the child, Julie, was six years old, that the tide turned for them all. They were, if not forgiven, at least forgotten. That is to say, suddenly people came upon them, exclaiming that they were the persons d’Is, and what were they doing now and how did they go on? Such reversals of attitude were not uncommon in the bored City. It was less an act of charity than a desire to see, squirming and doing tricks under the microscope, suitable microbes.

Madame d’Is began to appear in sewing circles, at afternoon teas, her husband and she played cards and dined at this house and that once or twice in a pair of months. They were hardly overwhelmed, but no longer were they excluded. Presently the child, too, perhaps perforce and in a moment of aberration, was absorbed into a children’s party.

She was not, after all, such a horrid creature. She did not cringe or seek to intimidate, often the failings of the weak. No, she went along with the little-girl games, was a modest pleased recipient of favor or victory, good at losing, quiet, but with a spark. “That child,” they said, “might look almost pretty, if her mother would wash her hair in softer soap, and dress her more like a child than a parcel.”

Julie began to be a social success superior to her parents. She did not fawn as they did, yet was plainly genuinely impressed and grateful as they were not. She was not without animation. She could exercise tact, unusual in a child: She was not one of those to pass raw comments on a hostess’s hat or wallpaper. “Poor mite. I expect she gets little enough chance to shine at home, with
those
two.” “The mother keeps her like a little slave. She heaps the child with chores. Her schooling is being carried on by the father. Not right, I am sure.”

“Mama,” said Sandrine, the daughter of the house, “Mama, please will you not ask Julie d’Is to my party.”

“
Not?
Why ever is that? Don’t you want poor Julie to see your dear new doll?”

Sandrine began to cry. She was not generally a tearful girl.

After some coaxing, it was got from her.

“I don’t want Scamper to die!”

Leaves of silence, oddly flavored by mystery and darkness, fell in the room. The ladies looked at each other.

“Well, you know,” said one at last, “it’s a very curious thing.”

“Yes,” said Sandrine’s aunt, “I remarked on it myself to Madame Claude only the other day.”

“Of course, a coincidence –”

“Or do you think the d’Is child –?”

They stared at one another now.

During the past year, Julie had attended seven parties. Thereafter two cats sickened in a week, the Claude dog had succumbed to a malady and been put down. A parrot was found dead in its cage before the guests had even left.

“Scamper,” said Sandrine, the name of the kitten. “
She’ll
put a spell on him like the others.”

“Good heavens, is that what the child says she does?”

Sandrine looked blank. Julie had said nothing. Her peers did not question her, for fear.

It was borne in on the ladies of that circle, and all those other circles with which it connected, that while the mothers had not been badly disposed to Julie, their children did not like her. Overnight, as it were, Julie ceased to be a social success.

“But,” said Chorgeh’s “uncle,” “regardless of that, soon enough the child was obliged to go to school.”

“My God,” said Chorgeh, encouragingly.

“It was thought to be an epidemic,” said the “uncle.” “A fever, in some instances accompanied by vomiting and a rash. There was only one death. But somehow, again generally unspoken, the unthinkable was mooted. The child was removed from the school. It was because, they said, she herself was too unsturdy to be exposed to childish ailments. She was then tutored at home, and only ventured out on errands with her mother –”

“Whereat the drawing rooms and byways were littered with sickening small animals and babies.”

“Exactly,” said the “uncle,” unperturbed.

Julie d’Is emerged from the pastry shop before them.

“She’s been in that shop a long while,” said Chorgeh. “Do you think she’s assaulted anyone?”

“Very likely,” said the “uncle.” “But if so, the assault will have gone
unseen. In all the instances of those who fell ill, nothing was reported, nothing was witnessed. Rarely did Julie make contact – she was not a tactile child. She did not fondly clasp her playmates and class-fellows to her, did not strike them, pinch, or tap their hands. They had soon got in the habit of making very sure she never came near their food or drink.”

“Now where is she going?” said Chorgeh. Their object had turned into a long sliding street, a funnel for the wind.

“Toward the Church, I believe, homeward.”

“She looks more interesting now,” said Chorgeh. “Quite attractive in fact, as should every female poisoner. Her hair, let down, would make her seem fascinating with those slanted eyes. A veritable Medea.”

Years retracted. Madame d’Is had come into an unexpected fortune, sole beneficiary of an obscure relative. With the malice of the microbes they had been, monsieur and madame began to intrude themselves everywhere, riding to horse races and galas, attending balls, financing things, overbearing all before them. Julie too appeared again out of her cupboard. Her childhood aura was dismissed or suppressed. She was found to dance well, to speak little and with some wit, to listen attentively. If not a jewel, still she shone slightly, and her hair was washed in soft soap and padded becomingly, her gowns were not parcel wrapping save in the most acceptable sense.

“Who died?” asked Chorgeh, as they strolled along the sliding street, the crowd lessened, and above them the façade of the cathedral suddenly loomed masklike in the sky. They had begun to climb hills, aware unconsciously of the backbones of Paradys beneath the streets. It was appropriate that the story should shadow, even if there was less breath for it. The brightness too had clouded over; there was a flutter of rain.

“Several died, of course. At first it wasn’t associated with Julie d’Is. She was a young girl with her hair dressed low, and sometimes loose as you have recommended. Not a Medea, an Ariadne. A piquance, an intelligence, a softness suggesting pliancy.”

There was a particular supper. Twelve people were there, and Julie d’Is – the magical number of thirteen. The next day two of the younger girls fell ill, quite seriously.

“Like the two cats,” said Chorgeh. He noticed that despite himself, his “uncle” was elaborating quite naturally now.

“The table being stocked with an uneven number, three girls had sat adjacently. One opposite Julie, and beside her the daughter of Madame Claude.”

“Must the veterinarian put her away?”

“She died by herself on the fourth night, raging with fever and calling aloud.”

“Perfect,” said Chorgeh.

“I never cease to enjoy,” said his “uncle,” “the beastliness of youth.”

Julie d’Is, with her small bag of cake, was now far ahead of them. She went lightly up the hill, and vanished at a turning.

“She’s getting away.”

“We must allow that. It is her own street.”

Chorgeh said, “You’re very disappointing. Is this the end?”

“To some extent,” said the “uncle.” “There’s only this to add. The occurrences of severe illness and occasional deaths, mysterious and unsolved, attendant on Julie at various functions, led the old suspicions of her out again. She was called the Peste Virgin, the Angel of Plague, and so on. At best, she was a harbinger of extreme unluck. Of course, no one could pin a crime to her. She came to be watched very closely, and those placed next to her at table, female or male, would find all manner of amusing excuses to absent themselves. Not every episode resulted in a fatality, or even a sickness, however. At one memorable dinner twenty-one people sat down with Julie d’Is, and afterward her neighbors exchanged bets on who would expire and when. But all stayed healthy. Eventually both her parents, neither of whom had ever been seriously ill, died in the mundane way. Julie inherited their dwindling wealth, and lived on it. She was left scrupulously alone.”

The “uncle” extracted another cigarette. The two men stood beneath a plane tree, as the sky tried to attract their attention.

“I must be getting on, I have to meet Vincent at my club,” said the “uncle.”

“But you can’t leave me like this – finish the story, you devil!”

“How can I? Only life can do that. And life has just gone around a corner with her pastry.”

“But – how is it done? How does she poison them?”

“Who knows? Plenty have tried to learn. Some have even resorted to inquiry of the lady, holding her the while at bay the length of a cane or umbrella. She looks amazed, it seems, insulted, normal. They can obtain nothing.”

“The police –”

“The police have generally not been involved, though it’s true they observed Julie d’Is for a year, after an especially tiresome death, that of a minor minister who shared a carriage with her. No evidence was found. No motive, as there had never been apparent motive. She has shown in her career neither passions nor attachments, nor jealousies, in love, or otherwise. How unusual. We all give ourselves away. You yourself, my little foreigner, have your wild and untamable streak, by which we know you.”

“Indeed.”

“And you are young, which gives besides a great deal away at once. Julie d’Is was also young for three decades. And gave away nothing. Since she seems to pollute and kill, that must be her only vice, and her only hobby.”
A raven-wing cloud scuffed through the plane. Rain dashed down. “The club,” said Chorgeh’s “uncle” with decision.

“No, I’m not coming with you,” said Chorgeh.

“For God’s sake, don’t go knocking on the door of Julie d’Is.”

“I shan’t,” said Chorgeh. “That much I do credit, that she’s unfriendly. Inimical.”

“Do please believe it.”

Chorgeh stood and watched his “uncle” hurry off downhill through the rain. The road was a tide of blackness. Something hung heavy, not thunder, but the bottomless story. It must be concluded, somehow.

The bell of the pastry shop gave a brittle sugary tinkle as he went in. On all sides were terraces of sweetness, layers and marblings, bubbles, cords, plaits, and flutes, that made the eyes if not the stomach hungry. In the middle of it all, unmoved through long acquaintance, a plump, pretty, curly girl lifted her head like a deer at a water hole.

“Can I help you, monsieur?”

“Yes. Give me some of those, please, and a couple of those,” and Chorgeh, thinking of his mother, who disliked sweet things of any type, food or human, and pictured her astoundment, when he should get home. Into the masculine study, which once Chorgeh’s father had occupied, kept now as a cross between a shrine and a lumber room, Chorgeh might take himself and eat each refused cake, remembering the cake shop girl, for she was very charming.

Yet, as she reached for the second batch of cakes, she looked puzzled, this charming girl. She stepped away, and turned to Chorgeh as if to ask him something, and as she stood there, seemingly at a loss, Chorgeh instead asked something of her. “Do you recall a woman who came in here, about half an hour ago?”

“I – don’t know, monsieur,” said the girl, looking more puzzled than before, frowning and gazing at the ground, as if she had glimpsed a mouse, perhaps.

“A drab, nasty woman. Obviously scheming. With holes in her gloves.”

“I – don’t know, monsieur,” repeated the girl. And then she looked at, and straight through him, as if to some other place that had suddenly grown visible in the doorway. Next moment she dropped on the floor. She lay there in a compact little puddle of skirts and curls, her eyes shut, her face icing white.

Chorgeh banged on the counter and shouted, and by magic the shop was full of women.

A minute later, the girl had been lifted up and was murmuring that she was quite well, quite well, but so cold.

“There, Olizette,” said the women. And one ran out to the pharmacist’s along the street.

“That gentleman,” said Olizette, “is waiting for his cakes. I was serving him when I was taken queer.”