Then the light shifted again and she was Effie, her expression as meek and innocent as that of the Sleeping Beauty in her tapestry. I wondered what spiteful thoughts had been playing in her head and, seeing her smile, I determined to take care. There was something knowing about her smile, something which belied her timid voice when she greeted me. Had she been out? Had she been reading the forbidden books? Had she searched my room?
I forced a smile in return. ‘Are you feeling better now, Effie?’ I asked.
‘Yes, thank you, much better. My headache is quite gone now, and I have been working at my embroidery all afternoon.’ As if to underline that, she put the tapestry aside and began to wind the silks into a tidy plait.
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘However, bearing in mind your condition this morning I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to go out for a few days at least.’ I expected her to protest at this, knowing from Tabby how she liked to go for walks, but Effie did not flinch.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I think it best to stay in the house while I am unwell: I should not like to catch a chill in the cemetery.’
‘And no reading,’ I added, thinking that if anything was going to shake her composure it would be a reference to her precious books. ‘I’m certain that for a girl of your fanciful temperament, novels and poetry can only do incalculable harm. I have several improving books, as well as a store of tracts for you to read if you wish, but I have taken the rest of your books from the library and would ask you not to purchase any more.’ I fully expected an outburst at that, but she merely nodded—and was that the tiniest smile on her pale lips?—and began to lay away her embroidery in her work-basket.
‘I want to try and finish this tapestry this year, if I can,’ she said. ‘I think it might be pretty as a fire-screen, or maybe the centrepiece for a bedspread. What do you think?’
‘As you wish,’ I said coolly. ‘I’m no judge of such things.’
I was surprised and rather disturbed. She had been helpless and hysterical that morning, wailing and crying like a spoilt child; now she was cool and self-possessed, her politeness almost a form of contempt. What secret was she keeping from me?
I watched her carefully over supper. As usual she ate little, but consented to take some bread and butter when I commented upon her loss of appetite. She was docile, sweet, and charming—why then did my stomach clench at the thought of her docility, her sweetness? My unease and dissatisfaction grew and eventually I retired to the smoking-room and left her alone.
I told myself that I was simply nervous: I had hardly slept the previous night, I had worked all day in the studio and I was tired. That was all. But somehow that was not all. While I was away something had happened to Effie, something secret, perhaps even something dangerous. In a strange, undisclosed way, I felt that Effie was no longer alone, no longer mine. I stayed awake late into that night, smoking and drinking, racking my brain to discover what had finally awoken my pale little sister.
Change
29
Five days.
For five days I waited. I could hardly eat; I was afraid to sleep in case I screamed my thoughts aloud in the night, and laudanum was the only rest I dared allow my disordered brain. I could see Henry was suspicious: sometimes I caught him staring at me and sometimes his eyes met mine with an air of calculation. Even a month ago I could not have borne the pressure of his questioning gaze; but there was a new strength in me, a sensation of change, a new darkness in my heart which filled me with terror and rejoicing. I felt protected by it as the formless butterfly gropes in the darkness of its hard chrysalis, as the wasp shifts in its silk cocoon and dreams uneasy vengeful dreams of flight.
And I? Would I fly? Or would I sting?
In my dreams I flew, floating among endless, shifting skies with my hair dragging behind me like a comet’s tail. And in my dreams I saw Henry Chester in a child’s room filled with balloons and the uneasy half-memories which had assailed me as I slept in Fanny’s house came back to me with a startling clarity. Voices spoke to me from the dark and I saw faces, heard names and welcomed them like old friends; there was Yolande, hair cropped short and figure straight as a boy’s, smoking her endless black cigars; there was Lily, the sleeves of her man’s shirt pushed up to reveal her thick red forearms; there was Izzy and Violet and Gabriel Chau…and, clearer than all the rest, I remembered Marta, floating through the dim air with balloons in her hands, floating closer and closer as Fanny stroked my hair and sang…I had been there that night as Henry came to me with black and guilty lust in his eyes…I knew I had been there and I welcomed the subtle change which was coming over me with a fierce joy.
There were times I was afraid of losing my mind. But I always held firm: when laudanum was not enough to combat the onset of hysteria and when I ached with loneliness for Mose and Fanny and when my fingers trembled to shred the almost-finished Sleeping Beauty tapestry to bloody rags, then I crept to my room where, at the bottom of one of my drawers, I had hidden the letter from Mose and the note from Fanny. Reading them again and again I knew that I was safe, that I was sane: that soon I would be free of Henry’s influence and his threats…I would be with friends who loved me.
On Thursday, I pleaded a headache in order to go to bed early and, at half past ten, I crept out of the house. At a reasonable distance from the house I hailed a cab to Crook Street, arriving there at about eleven as instructed. As soon as I passed the threshold I began to feel that spiralling, floating sensation again, the elated terror of my laudanum-dreams, the naked formlessness of my nocturnal flights. A girl opened the door, gaping, her face oddly distorted in the greenish gaslight; another girl’s face appeared behind hers, and behind hers another, until there were a multitude of disconnected features fanning out down the passage…I stumbled against the step, keeping my balance by leaning on the door-jamb; a dozen hands reached for me and, as they drew me into the passage, I caught sight of my face in the mirrors bracketed to the wall on either side of the doorway: a line of images receding into infinity; white face, white hair, cronelike among the pretty faces, painted lips and bright ribbons of the other girls. A door opened abruptly to my left and Fanny was at my side.
‘Hello, my dear,’ she said, taking my arm to lead me into the parlour. ‘And how are you?’
I grasped the stiff green satin sleeve of her gown to steady myself. ‘Oh, Fanny,’ I whispered. ‘Just hold me for a moment. I’m so frightened. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.’
‘Shhh…’ She pulled me towards her in a rough, one-handed embrace, and I could smell tobacco and amber and Pears’ soap on her skin, a strangely reassuring combination which somehow reminded me of Mose. ‘Trust me, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘Do as I say and you’ll be safe. Trust no-one else. You may not understand yet what we are doing but, believe me, I do. Henry Chester has done enough—I’ll not let him hurt you again. I’ll give you your vengeance.’
I was hardly listening: it was enough to feel her strong arm around my shoulder and her hand smoothing my hair. I closed my eyes and for the first time in many days I felt I might be able to sleep without fear of my dreams.
‘Where’s Mose?’ I asked sleepily. ‘He said he’d come. Where is he?’
‘Later,’ promised Fanny. ‘He’ll be there, I promise. Here. Sit down for a while.’ I opened my eyes as she pushed me gently but firmly towards a small couch in front of the fire. Gratefully, I leaned back against the cushions.
‘Thank you, Fanny,’ I said. ‘I’m so…tired.’
‘Drink this,’ she suggested, handing me a small goblet filled with a warm, sweet liquid fragrant with vanilla and blackberry, and I drank, feeling a pleasant relaxation spread through my shaking body.
‘Good girl. Now you can rest awhile.’
I smiled and allowed my gaze to wander lazily around the little parlour. It was a tiny room, furnished all in shades of red, with the same Oriental opulence as the rest of Fanny’s house. There was a fine Persian rug on the floor, fans and
masks hanging on the wall and a Chinese fire-screen half shielding the glow from the chimney. The furniture was of cedar and rosewood, upholstered in damask and scarlet. Megaera and Alecto were sitting in front of the screen on a mat, and on the table stood a tinted glass vase of red roses. For a moment, as I raised my hands to my face, I saw that, miraculously, I too had become a part of the change: my skin was tinted a glorious shade of flame, my hair a scarlet sunrise in the lamplight. I was filled with warmth and well-being. Almost unconsciously I reached for another drink of Fanny’s punch, feeling new energy trail thin fire down my throat. A sense of sudden, intense clarity came over me.
‘I do feel much better now, Fanny,’ I said in a stronger voice. ‘Please, tell me what we are going to do.’
She nodded, sitting down on the sofa beside me in a rustle of skirts. The two cats immediately came to her, pressing their soft faces into her hands and purring. She clucked and chirrupped at them, calling them by name.
‘How is Tizzy?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Is she treating you well?’
‘Yes,’ I replied with a smile. ‘She sleeps on my bed at night and sits with me when I’m alone. Henry hates her, but I don’t care.’
‘Good.’ For a second Fanny’s generous mouth seemed to tighten, almost cruelly, and she watched the cats on her lap with a fierce, hard intensity. I felt that she had completely forgotten my existence.
‘Fanny!’
‘My dear!’ The smile was back, her expression as serene as ever. I began to doubt I had ever seen it change.
‘What am I to do when Henry comes? Will I hide, as Mose said?’
She shook her head. ‘No, my dear, you will not hide. For the moment you will trust me, knowing that I care for you and would not allow you to be hurt. But you will have to be brave and you will have to do exactly as I say. Will you?’
I nodded.
‘Good. No questions, then. Promise?’
‘I promise.’
For an instant my eyes strayed from hers and were caught by something at the back of the room, something which from the corner of my eye seemed to be a bunch of balloons. I started, glancing involuntarily at the spot, and I felt Fanny’s grip tighten, just a little, on my arm.
‘What’s that?’
There were no balloons. Simply a circular stain in the top far corner of the room, next to the door.
‘Shh, my dear,’ said Fanny coaxingly. ‘Don’t fret. You’re quite safe here.’
‘I thought I saw…’ My words were heavy, each syllable a formless shape pushing its way through the decaying fabric of my exhaustion. ‘I saw balloons. What…what do balloons…?’
‘Shh. Close your eyes. That’s right. Shh…That’s right. Sleep, my dear. Sleep. It’s your birthday, and there will be balloons. I promise.’
30
The clock on the mantelpiece said a quarter past eleven. I looked at her, asleep on the sofa, and it was as if the bones beneath Effie’s face had shifted to become less pronounced, blurred, like an unfinished child’s face.
‘Marta!’
She shifted slightly as I called her, raising her fingers to her mouth in that peculiarly childish habit she had always had.
‘Marta, time to wake up.’
Her eyes opened, puzzled at first, then fixing my own with a sweet trust which tore at the heart.
‘Have I been asleep?’ she queried, rubbing her eyes.
‘Yes, Marta; you’ve been asleep for a long time…’ I felt my heart leap in elation; it was Marta’s childishly deep voice, blurred now with sleep and gently accented with a nostalgic echo of my mother.
‘Is he here yet?’
‘No, but he will be soon. We have to get you ready for him. Come with me.’
She was docile, following me without a sound, her hand in mine. I prayed I was doing the right thing.
‘First we have to make sure he doesn’t recognize you,’ I told her, leading her up the stairs to my own room. ‘I’m going to lend you one of my dresses, then we’ll change your face and your hair.’
‘All right.’ Her sweet smile did not waver. ‘And I won’t be afraid?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘you won’t be afraid. You’ll be strong and brave, as I told you.’
‘Yes…’
‘He won’t even recognize you. And when he asks your name, what will you say?’
‘I’m Marta.’
‘Good.’
‘This is called henna, Marta,’ I said as we rinsed her hair. ‘It will darken your hair so that Henry won’t recognize you. When Henry has gone we’ll wash it out with something which will make it go clean again. All right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now I’ll help you put on this dress of mine: I haven’t worn it for a long time, and I was younger and slimmer then. It’s pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And after that we’ll put some powder and rouge on your face to make you look different.’
‘He won’t recognize me.’
‘Not now you’re older.’
Imagine the image from a photographic plate as it transfers the picture to paper, growing darker and darker from white to palest gold, from amber to sepia. Imagine the moon as she turns her thin profile slowly to full-face, pulling the tides with her. Imagine the chrysalis as it cracks open the larva’s hard coffin and shows its wings to the sun. Does the imago mourn for the caterpillar it once was? Does it even remember?
31
It’s a lie: I don’t dream. There are people who don’t dream, you know; my nights here in Highgate are slices of oblivion where even God may not intrude. If God is unable to reach me, tell me, why should she pace my dreams, smelling of lilac and deceit, soft and murderous as a poison shirt? I don’t see her: I don’t feel her hair brush my face in the small hours of the night; I don’t hear the sounds of her skin touching the silk of her dress; I don’t glimpse her from the corner of my eye, standing at the foot of my bed.
I don’t lie awake, wanting her.
I thought I was past the age of searching for Scheherazade: I had ploughed a thousand furrows in a thousand girls…young girls fair and dark and red-headed, plain and beautiful, willing and unwilling. I opened their secret flesh, fed them and fed from them; but still the Mystery eludes me. Every time I arose from their fetid couches, sated and raped by their arid hunger, I knew it: there was a Mystery, but the more I delved the less I uncovered of its essential self. They watched me with their flat, stupid eyes, hungrily, knowingly…the Mystery gone like the mythical castle in the fairy tale, never in the same place for longer than an hour. I begin to understand King Shahriyar, who married his brides in the evening to execute them the next morning: perhaps, like me, he thought to perceive a part of the Mystery in the eviscerated remains of the night’s orgy; perhaps like me he crawled home too pale in the pitiless light of day with nothing but blood and semen on his hands. But he and I, brothers in disillusion, had this in common: we never lost hope.
Maybe if by magic I had been able to shrink back to the size of a foetus, to swim back into the red darkness of my mother: then, maybe, I might have understood the Mystery without the need to bludgeon and destroy…but I have no magic. My last impossible dream was Scheherazade, renewed each morning like the Phoenix from the embers of my lust, to deliver a new message of hope and acceptance, every night a new texture, a different face: a thousand and one unbroken vials containing an elixir of awesome, Biblical potency…the Mystery of eternal life.
Do I dream of her?
Perhaps.
I took nine grains of chloral before I left the house: I was strangely apprehensive, my hands straying constantly to my mouth, like a child taken in some misdemeanour. Strange thoughts crossed my mind like ill omens: as I passed the cemetery I thought I saw the figure of a child all in white, standing barefoot at the gate, watching me. I cried to the coachman to stop: looking again I realized that there was no child, merely a white gravestone just within the walls, reflecting the moon. As I watched, a cat leaped up on to
the stone and stared at me with a glittering, feral gaze over the dark spaces. Magnified into an unreal intensity by the clear night, it seemed to flex its jaws at me in fear or warning as I drove past. In my fanciful state I almost turned back, but a hunger which was far from purely carnal drew me: I could not turn back. The house was calling me.
Fanny showed me into the hall, as usual managing to disconcert me with the sheer scale of her vivid green gown, her tall plumes, her scent. As always her house was a hive of odours and for a moment I was drowned in perfumes. Then Fanny led me gently down the passage to one of the little side-parlours, a room which, in nearly ten years, I did not remember ever seeing.
‘I have someone here I think you might like to meet,’ she said with a little smile.
I felt my jaw tense: there was something in her expression which disturbed me, a kind of quiet assurance. I shook my arm free from her surprisingly strong grip, losing balance as I did and striking the door-frame with my shoulder. Fanny smiled again, her face in the lamplight distorted into an expression of vengeful glee.
‘Mr Chester…’ Her voice was solicitous and the expression—if it had been there at all—was gone. ‘You don’t seem well today. I do hope you’re not sickening?’
Sickening. In her accent the word gained a twist of eerie sibilances which insinuated themselves into my mind like snakes. I took her arm again to steady myself.
Ssssickening.
‘Yes, thank you, Fanny,’ I said randomly. ‘I’m very well. Very well indeed,’ I added, feeling the world stabilize. I forced a jovial smile. ‘So, who am I to meet?’ I enquired in a bantering tone. ‘Some new protégée of yours?’
Fanny nodded. ‘In a way, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But first I suggest a taste of my special punch to lift your spirits. Do come in.’ And lifting the latch of the parlour door, she opened it and drew me in after her.