The Secret Book of Paradys (93 page)

“How dangerous am I reckoned to be?” asked Leocadia. “Since you think me a murderess.”

“Ah!” Saume blinked as if startled. Why? “Come now,” he said firmly. “With correct supervision, you’ll grow calm.”

“Things in the food,” said Leocadia.

“The most harmless, naturally produced and nourishing –”

“But I’m given a knife for my butter,” said Leocadia, “and over there is my palette knife. Also my nail file.”

“We trust you,” said Doctor Duval.

It flashed upon her, like the fireworks of the warts, that perhaps she was to be left potential weapons in order that she turn them on herself. For this she did know at once, she would never be free.

There would be no “cure.” Since she was not ill, not mad, not a murderess, or anything else they said.

All they would want to do, rather than make her better, was to change her into the Leocadia of their invention. Nanice’s Leocadia, who killed and was insane.

Hilde.

Although they had just put her into corsets and long frocks, she was fifteen, and still a child. Pale and perfect. Skin milk white, hair a shining wonderful ginger, now piled up upon her head with tortoiseshell combs.

She did what little girls were meant to do. She was obedient and loving but not importunate. She had a doll who sat on her bed of frills and flounces. She read fine books of which her mother was the guardian. Her father, Monsieur Koster, was a wealthy man, descendant of a merchant family. Now high enough in society, he took care to comport himself with great dignity. Sometimes he chose also a book for Little Hilde to read (she was to them “Little Hilde”). She embroidered too. Her mother had begun to train her in the rituals of wifeship, seeing that the house of polished stairs, lace curtains, and huge ferns in china bowls ran on butter.

And Hilde was happy. It was a safe existence where everything was in its place. God ruled the world. Her father ruled the house. Her mother ruled her. But all three were kind and might be pleaded with prettily for favors. Which they would then grant. God was especially amenable: “Let me not have freckles, like Angeline,” and God did not allow Hilde to become freckled. (Her father did not care for freckles.) And her mother would let Hilde buy sweets once a week. Her father permitted Hilde to try a sip of wine at dinner. “It’s good for the child’s blood.”

But Hilde had a secret life. It did not occur to her to share it, let alone confess. It had to do with darkness and her narrow bed, the touch of the linen nightgown on her bareness, and of her hair in a long plait that she might undo, always to the consternation of her maid in the morning: “However did this happen?” And Hilde would be innocent and surprised. For in her heart she knew that her undone hair was not a crime, nor what sometimes hap
pened to her in the dark. They were silly childish things, very pleasant, like playing with the doll, or eating a sweet. Somehow, not so public. A game of childhood out of which, of course, as a woman she would grow, ascending into a cold clever angel, the peerless wife, and adorable admirable mother, in her turn, of other little children.

But the dark … The dark was lovely. A special thing she could do. A sort of present. She doubted anyone else in the world was able to.

And strangely, sometimes when she did this marvelous thing, which left her whole body ringing and tingling, beautifully composed for sleep, she had an incoherent image of some weight that pinned her to the bed, and that the hands upon her were not her own. And now and then, she would kiss the pillow, but not as she kissed her mother or papa. She wished the pillow then was more like a fruit, sweeter, and more moist. Once she had dreamed that it was, and in slumber the lovely thing happened on its own. She was amazed and gratified. Truly, it was a gift, and she was sorry she would have to grow out of it.

She had feared slightly, when the corset had been compressed about her and the long dress put on and her hair raised up, that this might be the end of her game.

But it was not. Oddly, in some curious way, it actually heightened her enjoyment. How lucky. How sad for Mama and Papa that they had never known such a thing and never, now, would.

The Koster house was one of a group of elegant mansions high on Clock Tower Hill. Smart carriages drawn by satin horses speeded up and down the street, and trees overhung the pavement. In the mornings, maids might be seen scrubbing the steps, and gardeners toiled over the flowers against the railings.

Two months after the putting up of Hilde’s ginger cloud of hair, Madame Koster descended the steps of the house with her daughter. Their carriage stood ready on the street with a man holding open the door. The lady and her child were going to see a play at the Goddess of Tragedy. It was an epic from an era before the Revolution, poetic prose, three hours of it. A stern moral tale, incidentally full of drama, passion, bloodshed, and terror. The afternoon performance had therefore been thought most suitable.

Everyone in Paradys who might be said to be anybody was to attend at some point. Wishing to go, Madame Koster had assured monsieur the play was a classic, and should be part of Hilde’s education.

Hilde, as a girl, had been tutored at home, and these classical plays were sometimes gone through by a pie-faced governess with a high squeaky voice. Something of their power was therefore lost on Hilde, who accordingly did not look forward to the jaunt, save that it was the theater. For this, since her
earliest pantomimes, she had cherished a beglamored enthusiasm. She was too, so far, a patient girl. She had been trained to be. It had also occurred to her that while the play went on, if it was very boring, there would be the audience to scan (surreptitiously in the gloom) and thoughts of other things to be gone over – her doll’s new wardrobe, a patch of garden behind the house that was hers, and so on.

The Goddess of Tragedy towered white and tiered above the streets. Many mothers and daughters, and some young sons, were assembled. “Why,” said Madame Benoit to Madame Koster, “have you not heard of the actor who is playing the Roman?”

“No not at all.”

“Well, he is quite astonishing. He has brought the part to life. They say it’s frightful, his moment of death.”

Soon Hilde was installed in the plush Koster box. Her mother had not agreed to bonbons or chocolates. It was not that sort of play.

Hilde sat quietly, and having viewed the fashionable afternoon gowns, she saw the gas lamps lowered, and the heavy curtain rose.

For twenty minutes it was very dull. So dull that even obedient Hilde felt a faint jab of rebellion.

But then. Then,
he
came out. Out of the wings onto the plateau of the stage.

Stage light is always miraculous. It is a magical spell that breathes on things and changes them,
remakes
them. Besides, the creatures who people this universe have, very often, a psychic, extraordinary power. How else can they do what they do?

The man who characterized the Roman wore a costume of black and silver, the notion of the time as to what the garments of a Roman commander might have been. But he was tall and slender, with wide shoulders. He had a priest’s face, and the arrogance of a priest, officiating at his altar. His hair was black as ravens. His eyes, blacker.

From the instant he emerged from nowhere onto the stage, Hilde understood, just as a bird grasps abruptly how to fly, that here was the reason for her instinct and her life. She did not have to question herself, or any other. She did not have the temerity to say to God:
Why
? Let alone,
No, no
.

Her body felt light as cobweb. Her heart was engorged and beat like a gong.

She floated somewhere just above the ledge of the box, and oddly, her mother could not see this. And Hilde knew quite well that the man below, so near, so far, the Roman, she knew that he must also be intensely aware of her. For she blazed like a lamp, and he, being what he was, must see all things exactly. He would sense her, and look up. And so he did. Up to the box, his
eyes flaming like stars, over and over. And then Hilde burned, and she must look away. But only, each time, for a moment.

The play, forgotten parts of which the squeaky governess may even have read to her, this time fixed itself into Hilde’s mind. She was conscious of every iota of it, every histrionic, profound, and adult emotion. As if a door had been flung open before her, revealing a new world.

When it came time for the Roman to die, Hilde’s gonging heart stopped. She felt herself die, too. And thereafter, what could she be save reborn?

She saw him again briefly, the actor-priest, taking his bows at the end of the play. He did this coldly and magnificently, as if to show them he had elevated the Host already, what more could they want? Only one further time did he raise his face toward Hilde’s balcony. One ray (like a lighthouse). Then gone.

Hilde went home in the Koster carriage and in a dream, a trance. She had been ensorcelled.

“Hilde, eat your food.”

“I’m sorry, Mama, I’m not hungry.”

“What is the matter with the child. Are you unwell?”

“No, Mama.”

They had not noticed how silent Little Hilde had become because she was generally a quiet, abstemious daughter, what they preferred.

“It’s the weather,” pronounced Monsieur Koster, “Eh, Hilde? Too hot. Take her for a drive, Lysette.”

“We had a drive this morning, Solomon.”

“Then probably the carriage was too stuffy.”

“The carriage was perfect.”

They lost interest in the carriage and Little Hilde, and Hilde was able to leave her unwanted luncheon for the maid to clear away.

As Hilde sat presently, her hands resting on an oval of unseen embroidery, she heard her mother speaking to a servant in the hall.

“We must have flowers there and there. And I shall want to see Cook. Some special light dishes that they can peck at like birds.”

Hilde’s mother was arranging an evening of guests, as she sometimes did. Madame Koster flowed back and forth and so into the sitting room, where she came to inspect Hilde’s work. Hilde stitched at a rose.

“How listless you are,” said Madame Koster. “Is it your time?” She was referring to Hilde’s cycle of menstruation.

“No, Mama.”

“I thought not. Well, you must liven up. You’re becoming depressing. Tomorrow afternoon you must have a fitting for your new dress.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“What do you think?” said Madame Koster, a touch flustered all of a sudden. “Some of the theater people are coming to my little evening.”

Hilde’s hand stayed mute upon the rose.

“Well, you might show some interest, you tiresome girl. All lost in a world of your own. I don’t think you need to meet my guests, but your father insists. You look so young and charming – why, you might only be eleven, except for your hair.… Perhaps we will have it dressed down for the night. It’s so pretty that way.”

Hilde’s mother always saw Hilde as very young, and Hilde did not ever question this, nor why it was an extra delight to her mother if Hilde should remain very young. At this minute, in any case, she was not thinking of that.

“Who – will be coming to your party, Mama?”

“Oh, the two leading men of the company, Monsieur Roche and Monsieur Martin. And a couple of the ladies, I believe. But of course you’ve forgotten all about that important play. What a disappointment you were. Everyone else bubbling over and not a word out of you. I half think you slept right through it.”

“Oh no, Mama.”

“Well, then, who are Monseur Roche and Monsieur Johanos Martin?” demanded Mama, bridling. She was flushed, but exclaimed, “And well you should blush, Hilde, You’ve quite forgotten.”

Hilde lowered her burning face.

“Monsieur Johanos Martin played the Roman.”

“One out of two then,” snapped Madame Koster.

She was a tallish woman, curvaceous, with fashionable apparent mounds of hair built up over padding on her skull. Her maid knew many of her secrets. The coiffeur, the rouge, the manner in which madame sometimes lost her temper as the corset refused to reduce her waist below twenty-four inches. Hilde’s waist, uncorseted, was eighteen inches, and in its cage of bones became a flower stalk. Her hair grew in lush masses, her skin was fresh as if the dew were on it.

Sometimes the maid privately wondered if madame allowed Hilde so many sweets in hopes of extra girth, or blotches. Hilde had not wanted sweets this week.

“Your new frock is very lovely and young,” said madame. “You’ll grow up too fast. And you’re such a baby.”

In the dark …

Hilde woke. She had been dreaming.

In the dream, the party had begun, and through the crowd of guests Hilde had found herself moving, not dressed as she should be, but in her long white
nightgown, and her hair loose on her shoulders. No one had appeared to notice, and after her first terrifying shame, she began to think that perhaps she was dressed quite properly.

Then, by the open door that led onto the little terrace, he was standing. He wore black clothes, she could not make them out, not his costume from the play, certainly, yet neither anything everyday. A sort of soutane, perhaps, a priestly robe, belted close at the thin hard waist.