Viggo was determined to see his friend, Maria. Since the accident he had given a lot of thought to their last meeting. The more he thought, the more he was sure that whoever it was he had met on the stairs the day of the accident hadn’t been Maria.
The only way to be certain was to see her again, but he had visited the house of Madame Sabina Petrova four times and each time he had been turned away.
Viggo lived with his uncle, the head scene painter, Peter Tias, in an apartment not far from the opera house. That Saturday, his uncle had asked him to run some errands. As the first would take Viggo in the same direction as the house, he thought there would be no harm trying once more. He was impatient to be gone.
‘Wait, wait,’ said his uncle. ‘If you are by chance going to knock on Madame Sabina’s door, may I suggest you take your toboggan.’
‘It will slow me down, Uncle,’ said Viggo.
‘You knucklehead, take the tram, and it won’t. And it will give you the perfect excuse as you will be going to the park opposite.’
‘Good idea,’ said Viggo.
His toboggan was his favourite possession. He and his uncle had made it together and Viggo had tested it and made changes until it was the fastest toboggan he had ever ridden.
‘It’s the perfect day for such a sport, wouldn’t you say?’ said his uncle.
Peter’s apartment was jumbled in a magical way. Model ships, flying machines and strange paper dragons hung from the ceiling. The living room was occupied by a large table on which were piles of boxes, tins, and jars of coloured pencils. Miniature furniture from model sets decorated shelves that sagged under the weight of books. Peter refused to have a maid and insisted on looking after Viggo himself.
‘What’s the use of dusting?’ he would say to any tut-tutting visitor. ‘It’s a fruitless battle. Dust will always win.’
It mattered not a jot what people said. To Peter and Viggo, the apartment was as orderly as a library.
On the table Peter placed two neat packages; one containing enough money for the tram ride, a hot chocolate and a bun, the other the money for the paint supplier.
‘Put them somewhere safe,’ he said, ‘and Viggo, try not to get into trouble.’
‘I promise.’
‘Here’s your scarf,’ said Peter. ‘And your hat. And you would lose your fingers without your gloves.’ He sighed. ‘And you would lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your neck. Go on – and don’t be back too late. Or get too cold.’
Viggo picked up his toboggan and rushed down the stairs, two at a time and in the hall ran straight into Stephan Larsen who worked in the fly tower and was stamping snow off his boots onto the mat.
‘What’s the hurry?’ he said.
‘I’m going tobogganing,’ said Viggo.
The tram dropped him outside the diva’s house. Glancing up at the windows he saw Hildegard looking down at him. He straightened his coat and knocked. The butler opened the door and told him for the fifth time that, on doctor’s orders, the patient was not allowed visitors, and closed the door politely.
Viggo crossed the road to the park where he turned and took another look at the house. Then he climbed the slope and, along with many laughing children, hurtled to the bottom faster than any of them. He sat there for a moment and sighed. Just as he’d decided he would set off on his uncle’s errands, he saw her. Maria dressed in the same nymph costume that she’d worn when he’d seen her dance at the dress rehearsal.
‘Maria, what are you doing here? You’ll freeze to death.’
As he started to take off his coat to put round her, a child on a toboggan careered down the slope.
‘I’m the fastest of all,’ he cried.
He and his toboggan ran straight into Maria. Viggo had the scream in his throat – he could almost taste it – and then he saw that the child had not hit her. It was as if he’d gone straight through her. Snow rose in a mist and settled again. There was Maria, unharmed, holding out her hand to him.
Viggo looked around. Everything was as it should be. No one else seemed to have noticed her despite her costume. Was he imagining her? But she was there, looking at him – waiting for him, of that he was certain. He followed her out of the park and watched in horror as she walked across the road in front of a tram.
This is stupid, thought Viggo. I’m seeing things. I need to eat something. He started to walk away but, on the other side of the road, Maria beckoned him.
He crossed the road when it was safe to go. Maria moved further along the street and stopped, pointing at a bundle of clothes covered in snow.
It suddenly occurred to Viggo that Maria had died after all and this apparition was her ghost.
‘Are you dead, Maria?’ he asked sadly. ‘Are you a ghost?’
The ghost didn’t reply but continued to point at the bundle of clothes. Viggo went closer. The bundle moved and panic overcame him. He bent down, brushing snow away, and found a girl looking up at him, her face, though blue with cold, was Maria’s face.
He picked her up. She weighed next to nothing.
‘Maria…’ he said, uncertainly.
‘I’m Celeste,’ the girl murmured. ‘I’m trying to find Anna but I can’t walk any more.’
Viggo looked from her to where the ghost still stood.
‘Don’t take me back to Madame’s house,’ said Celeste, weakly. ‘Please, not there.’
For a moment Viggo had no idea what to do. But then the ghost girl walked into the path of a cab and it seemed as if the horse saw her. It halted and Viggo carried the girl, this stranger who looked like Maria but wasn’t Maria, to the cab and called out his address to the driver. The driver ignored him.
‘Come on, you stubborn animal,’ he shouted at the horse. ‘Move!’
The horse stood still while the ghost girl stroked its nose.
Viggo said again where he wanted to go.
‘Oh yes, and I’m Father Christmas,’ said the driver.
With difficulty, Viggo fumbled in his pocket and took out one of the envelopes that his uncle had given him.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘and there will be more if you go fast.’
Only when Viggo was safe inside the cab did he look for the ghost girl. She was nowhere to be seen. He rubbed Celeste’s frozen hands, trying to warm her. ‘Can’t you go faster?’ he shouted to the driver.
Never had a journey felt longer.
‘You mustn’t fall asleep,’ he said to Celeste. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I… I was given a doll today… by the king. She was so…’
‘Yes, Mar… yes, Celeste – she was so… what?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘What was she like?’ he asked, staring out of the window.
It was not far now. Just round the next corner and they would be home.
‘Is she your sister?’ asked the driver, who had softened.
‘Yes, and she’s ill.’
‘I can see that.’ The cab pulled up. ‘Hold on,’ said the driver and he jumped down from his seat and gathered up Celeste. Viggo held open the door to the building then ducked in front of him and ran up the stairs, shouting as he went.
‘Uncle – Uncle Peter, come quickly.’
The doors to all the apartments opened. To Viggo’s relief, his uncle’s face appeared at the top floor. Stephan Larsen reached Viggo first.
‘Viggo, what’s happened – is that Maria?’ called Peter as Stephan took Celeste from the driver.
‘No, it’s… I mean, yes, it’s Maria,’ said Viggo.
‘Here,’ said the driver, handing Viggo some money. ‘You paid me far too much. And you’ve left your toboggan – I’ll get it for you.’
‘What have you done?’ asked Peter. ‘Did you kidnap her?’
‘No – I found her in the street.’
‘Never,’ said Peter.
‘She needs a doctor,’ said Stephan, lying Celeste on the sofa.
‘Dr Marks in Flat Three,’ said Peter as he fetched some blankets. ‘He’ll help. Viggo, you go.’
The doctor came slowly from his meal.
When he saw Celeste, he pulled his napkin from his shirt and said, ‘Bring me my bag, Viggo, it’s in the hall.’
Viggo ran to do as he was asked.
The three of them waited as the doctor examined Celeste.
At last the doctor said, ‘She is fortunate that you found her. Any longer and, well, I don’t know. Indeed I don’t.’
‘She said she was looking for Anna,’ said Viggo.
‘What do we tell her?’ said Peter.
‘The truth,’ said Stephan.
There was no need to tell her that afternoon for the doctor had given her a sleeping draught.
Viggo went to sit with her. He looked closely at her face and thought the scars were not unlike stars. As he looked, something half-forgotten came to him. Maria, he remembered, had freckles on her skin. Now she had no freckles, only the scars from the glass.
So who was she, this girl who called herself Celeste? And what had happened to Maria?