The Sphere (27 page)

“Don’t these things bring back good memories for you?” Axel asked as he picked up a snow globe. I didn’t answer. “I know, they’re tacky, but for me they bring back good memories. My grandma had a lot of them at home. I must have spent hours watching the little snowflakes swirling inside the glass!”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know why I was there. We ought to have gone somewhere else, anywhere else, I should have insisted. On the other hand, now that we were someplace with better lighting than the pub, it seemed impossible to me that a boy like that had asked me out. He could see it, too. Before long he’d notice the difference between the girl he thought he met at the pub, through the haze of a couple of beers, and the reality. He would see it, and then our trip to the market would be over. Actually he must already have been thinking it, since he wouldn’t stop looking at me. I was about to walk out. I couldn’t stand him looking at me so much.

“What a serious face! What’s going on under that shell?”

I answered with an involuntary snort. I always went too far; my usual defense was my bad temper.

“Can I tell you what I think?” asked Axel. I was surprised when my head nodded yes. “I don’t think your aloofness is hiding an empty interior, like with other girls. I think there’s a whole lot going on inside that little head.”

“How would you know!”

“I have a pretty good eye.”

Months later Axel confessed that he had begun to fall in love with me that day. He told me that he liked how I was attractive in spite of myself, in spite of all my efforts not to be. He liked my long jet-black hair, my inscrutably colored eyes, and the fact that I was as tall as he was. But above all he liked the way my stern expression combined with all the little things that told him I felt at ease with him.

We walked around the little wooden stalls while we talked—or rather, while Axel talked. My gaze paused for a few seconds on a stand of handmade notebooks across from where we were. It was only a second, but Axel noticed, and took me by the hand to lead me over to the stall. There were notebooks with leather covers, with velvet covers, with lined paper, and with completely blank paper.

“Your skin’s white as chalk,” he said. I could feel his eyes on me as I touched the notebooks, my hands trembling with cold. I gave him a friendly shove without even looking up. “I can’t figure out if you write or draw. That black ink stain on your right index finger could be from either one.”

I didn’t answer. I picked up a few notebooks to look at them, asked the price, and put them back. For a moment I felt happy. I looked at the stain on my finger. My hands were red and swollen with cold.

“You aren’t gonna buy one?” asked Axel. I shook my head. “Come on, I’ve got an idea.”

We walked to the other side of the market where the food was. The smell of fried food and cotton candy clung to our clothes.

“Take these,” Axel said, pulling his gloves off. “Put them on.”

“No thanks.”

“Are you sure? Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

I stuck my hands into my coat pockets and mentally told myself off for my stupid, obvious smile. What was wrong with me? Axel was good-looking, sure. The kind of handsome that my friends liked. Well, and me too, a little. But it was all going to come to an end soon, as soon as he realized I was nothing but a schoolgirl.

“If you’re not going to wear my gloves, at least hold them for a second, okay?”

Axel walked away. He took a few steps and then turned back toward me. I jumped: he had caught me looking him up and down. He smiled, amused, and gestured for me to put on the gloves.
Shit! Shit!
I repeated in my head, my cheeks burning. Busted! Eurydice, focus. It’s just going to be tonight and nothing else. Concentrate. Look, he’s a lot older than you. And besides... besides... he’s...
kind-of-posh
.

“Kind-of-posh?” Laura asked the next day, her eyes wide with confusion. She and Marion burst into my room like a tornado, anxious to hear how the date had gone.

“It wasn’t a date. Okay, it sort of was. But he’s kind of posh.”

“What are you talking about?” Laura exclaimed.

“He didn’t seem like that at the pub,” put in Marion.

“He isn’t posh, just...
kind of
. Wasn’t that clear?... He goes to school at St Andrews.”

“Whaaaat!” cried Laura shrilly. “You’re going there, too. Unbelievable!”

“My parents want me to go there,” I clarified. “I still haven’t decided.”

“But you turned in the pre-application...”

“Whatever. We’ll see where I end up.”

“It’s destiny. Destiny.”

There was no way to stop Laura and Marion from chalking the encounter between Axel and me up to destiny.

“What does he study?” asked Marion, full of curiosity.

“How would I know!” I replied crossly. Being the center of attention was making me nervous.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Laura’s question wasn’t a question so much as a reprimand.

Well no, I had no idea what the boy I’d gone to the Christmas market with the night before studied. I hadn’t asked. Was that a sin? Business, Economics, what different did it make? I was totally certain that after that night at the market I wasn’t going to see him again, no matter how much those two girls pestered me. I wasn’t going to see him again because
he
wasn’t going to call.

Axel came back with two steaming cups. He had to pull the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands to keep from burning them.

“Now I really do recommend putting on the gloves.”

I put on the gloves and he passed me a cup full of dark, sweet-smelling liquid. I scrutinized the contents doubtfully.

“Spiced wine,” he said, “haven’t you tried it before?”

“Of course I’ve tried it,” I answered haughtily.

Dirty lie. I hardly ever drank, that’s how I ended up drunk on just one pint the day I met him.

“I thought you must have. I can see you’re very worldly.”

Axel nudged me with his elbow and I smiled again, more broadly than I wanted to.

“I’m not that young!” I protested, feeling small.

“I didn’t say you were. In fact, I haven’t asked your age. Didn’t you notice? I assume you’re legal... Because you are, right?”

I shook my head, trying not to do it too hard so I wouldn’t get dizzy. I’d done it again—drunk too much too fast. But the warmth of the wine felt so nice as it went down my throat!

“Your eyes are shining. Am I going to get in trouble for getting a minor drunk?”

“I’m not a minor!”

“So how old are you?”

Axel was whispering, but I could hear him perfectly. He was so close I could feel the heat coming off his body.

“I’m eighteen... but not twenty-one.”

“So you can get yourself into trouble, but you can’t drink.”

I nodded very slowly.

“I knew that already,” he said, coming a little closer. “That’s why they wouldn’t sell you a beer in the pub.”

I closed my eyes. Axel was so close that I couldn’t focus on his face anymore.

“Why does someone so sweet pretend to be so tough?”

Snowflakes were falling on our faces, but I didn’t feel them. I only felt the ginger dancing between our mouths, still pressed tightly together even though the minutes went swirling by, even though the castle was still watching, even though there were tons of people all around us. I didn’t even know when the kiss had started. Axel hid his hand under my thick hair to protect it from the cold. The touch of his icy fingers against my neck made me shiver, but nothing in the world could have made me want him to take his hand away. I felt like I was inside a bubble of silence, in one of those artificial snow globes he liked so much. No more castle, no more people, no more stalls. The noise of the rides had vanished. The universe had narrowed to a single point where only Axel and I existed.

“From now on you’re gonna love the Christmas market, huh?” said Laura, doubling up with laughter after I told them about that part.

“Nothing happened! It was just a kiss.”

“Of course,” said Marion. “And so you bought that notebook for yourself, is that right?”

It was a small notebook with a velvet cover and blank pages. Axel had tucked it inside the pocket of my coat when he hugged me in front of my house to say goodbye.

“Blank pages for writing or drawing,” was the inscription on the first page. I couldn’t believe someone had taken the trouble to buy me something and I hadn’t even noticed. When had he written the inscription?

When my friends left my ego was so inflated it wouldn’t fit inside my body. Not only was Axel in college, he must have been about to finish his degree, I was sure, even though I hadn’t asked. How old was he? 24? 25? Laura was flipping out like never before, and Marion—well, she was still a little upset because I hadn’t said anything to Axel about us bringing his friend and Marion along, too. The laughter and complicity of my friends made me believe anything was possible, that actually it had already happened—someone like Axel had noticed me.

I stroked the cover of the notebook, opened it to the middle, and drew a cat, asleep. A happy cat.

“But I thought she’d stopped doing it!” I hear Morgan’s voice in my dreams.

“Eurydice!” It’s Sherlock. “Come now, it’s time to go back home.”

I open my eyes, still drowsy. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am: the parlor in Dracula’s mansion. Morgan and Sherlock have finished inspecting the garden. The Count gives me an enigmatic smile when we say our farewells.

“Come back any time, Miss Eurydice. You are always welcome,” he says, kissing my hand.

Sherlock and Morgan seem surprised by the Count’s sudden courtesy, but I don’t care how surprised they are. I ignore their barrage of questions. I don’t want to wake up, not at all. Once we’re in the street my feet move forward automatically. Eventually the others give up and stop asking questions. The dream brought on by the drink the Count gave me was so real, one of those dreams you don’t ever want to let go. I wish I could sleepwalk. I can still feel Axel’s touch, his cold fingers on the nape of my neck. I touch my neck with my own hand and it’s like Axel is there, like we could lace our fingers together. Sherlock and Morgan walk along in front of me and for once I really don’t care what they’re talking about.

Am I really jealous of Sherlock? I think that’s ridiculous.

I wish I could go back to the dream and see Axel one more time. Could I be idealizing him because I’ll never see him again? I look down and notice that the pocket of my jacket looks sort of bulky. I lower my hand discreetly to where I used to carry the notebook, back when I was alive. My heart leaps. It’s there! I can feel the soft velvet of the cover. I didn’t even remember taking it to the party. It’s been with me this whole time, during the accident, always. I feel less alone, strangely, like the notebook is an anchor with an invisible thread that can keep me connected to life. I stroke the cover affectionately, as if I were touching someone I loved.

Rage rises up inside me. I am not dead. I will find a way back.

––––––––

E
ver since Heathcliff attacked Beatrice, she has been sunk in a deep sadness that worries all of us, though for different reasons. Despite how unlike each other we are, I recognize everything Beatrice has done for me, and I’m grateful to her. She opened her home and her heart to me.

Morgan, as you might expect, won’t stop griping because Beatrice’s sorrow is so apparent that some Sphereans have been heard to murmur that she has the illness no one can identify, but all suspect. Some call it the rupture of the Great Script. To prevent the rumors from spreading, we keep constant guard to make sure Beatrice doesn’t go out into the street or do anything rash.

“Hi, Morgan,” I call out when I reach Beatrice’s house just after dawn. It’s my turn to look after her.

Morgan has a Spherean book on her lap, with the blank pages... I’ll never understand it. I feel a mix of nostalgia and tenderness, thinking of the books my parents devoured. When she hears my greeting she lets out a snort, her hair fluttering.

“I have to stay here until further notice.”

“How come?” I ask, surprised. “Why?”

“Orders from Holmes. He wants to see you. Now. Alone.”

“What for?”

“To set up some romantic role with you. Better take advantage now that there’s freedom in the script.”

I can’t find any sarcasm in Morgan’s words. I study her closely, but she seems serious. When I look at her I’m astonished to see that she’s grown eyes. Not just the hint of them I saw at the Count’s mansion, but green eyes, glittering with pride. They’re alive, penetrating, perfect for her personality.

“Don’t pay her any mind, dear,” says Beatrice, walking like a ghost into the sitting room.

Her face has lost its rounded and harmonious features. She has neglected the half-moon that used to frame her face, and now her hair falls in a disorderly heap of limp, straw-colored locks.

“No? Didn’t your darling from the hills hit you right in the face? Well then, Holmes can court our unpublished friend. I don’t see why not.”

“Morgan!” I exclaim. She ought to realize how much it hurts Beatrice to hear her talk about Heathcliff. “Bice.” I go over and give her a hug. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she answers with melancholy sweetness.

She has eyes, too. I see them when she lifts her face. They’re small and dark, and I feel a tightness in my chest when I see how opaque they are.

“Come on, quick. You should be going,” says Morgan. “Holmes said for you to go find him as soon as you arrived.”

“Fine,” I say, resigned.

I don’t know if it’s a good idea to leave Beatrice with Morgan for even longer. She’s particularly insensitive today.

When I reach the former police station where Sherlock lives I find the door locked, which seems odd. I peer in the windows.

“He’s gone to the circus,” says a thick voice from right behind me.

It’s one of the merry wives of Windsor—to my horror. I’ve got to cut her off right away or she’ll ramble on forever.

“I don’t mean to gossip, but he has gone to the circus. I saw him a moment ago. He went out with his pipe and his deliberate walk. Serious, like always, though I think even more so than usual. I don’t know why, though I hear there are problems. He went alone, I’m sure of it. Unless maybe he was going to meet someone at the circus. But from here to the tent he went alone, I swear to you.”