| |
––––––––
WILLIAM BATHENBROOK passed the photograph to Gunnar and Simra. It shook him in seeing Alexandra so enraptured by the demon’s presence: head back, eyes shut, a satiated grin bending her lips. She was far off since February and incommunicado with her office as of May. Will had yet to discuss with her the bizarre events that had concluded their séance at Borley Rectory and was plumb out of patience to stifle his concerns any longer.
Oliver had been drawn in. “The ‘Mistress of the Nyirbátor’ may refer to Elizabeth Bathory, the Hungarian blood countess.”
Will replied, “The photo is brilliantly horrific.”
“Too brilliant,” Oliver said. “Alexandra will be miffed to learn the Ghost Club has deemed it a forgery and plans to sue.”
Hildegard fidgeted in her chair, upset that their cabal had been infringed. She yelled, “Tell us everything. Schnell!”
Oliver quivered. He blurted, “Alexandra is not a lesbian and often talks about anal sex! She suspects you’re all conspiring over finding some woman in France. Can I please stop talking now?”
Hildegard lit a cigarette and laughed. “I knew it was her.”
Will shook his head. “I plan to book sea passage to Brazil. Would you care to join in, Simra?”
Simra looked up. He blinked and said, “Yes.”
Later that evening, with only Barnabus at his side, Will worked the knobs of his shortwave receiver. The atmosphere on most summer eves was unfavorable, and he picked up only blips from a Brazilian proxy of the Fawcett Relief Expedition. The last report forwarded by 1.AW stated the undertaking was struggling on the rapids of the Rio Xingu, had bartered with Anauqua Indians, and remained confident they were on the path to Colonel Fawcett. Rio de Janeiro was three hours behind Greenwich Mean Time. Messages by 1.AW came after midnight. Alexandra’s name had never been mentioned. The prime reporting interval passed in silence.
Will continued to wait, deep in thought.
A year ago, he had come across an article in the Evening Standard lauding the charitable work of his aunt, Adelaide de Chantraine. Beside her in the accompanying picture stood a younger woman: ravishing, bewitching, and hauntingly familiar. Will knew little about his aunt other than she had visited occasionally from France, and she was childless. Yet, the young and elegant brunette held a clear resemblance; indeed, more so to his mother.
With time on his hands, he had opened an inquiry.
His findings were disturbing.
The Monvoisin aristocracy dated back eternal and was mentioned in the fourteenth century witch inquisitions conducted by the Dominican friar, Bernard Gui. It labeled them occultists in league with Satan. Will speculated that his mother had eloped to escape such dark practices, but when left destitute, found a way back into her family’s malevolent graces. He was growing certain that the penalty she had paid was the surrendering of one of her daughters.
Emma first came to mind. She had died in a Chicago fire alongside her Hungarian nanny while in their aunt’s care. Will recalled with unease that during his mother’s visit to England as he convalesced in 1919, Alexandra had also been placed under Adelaide’s supervision. It had not gone well. Six months later, their mother had been summoned home. Alexandra had fled to Montana and, thereafter, ingested pills. The suicide attempt had cost his sister a four-month stint at the Montana State Hospital for the Insane in Warm Springs.
It had failed to dissuade her from trying again.
Yet, the more Will delved, his focus turned toward shrouded stories about Abigail. She had been born a year after him and died of fever at age two. It was such a hushed-up incident that he could not recall where she was buried, though somewhere in Asia struck familiar. Will felt guilt over preserving this longstanding family secret and stifling his newfound suspicions from Alexandra, but she had already lost so much.
Any false hopes might just finish her. He missed her terribly.
At three in the morning, pings started to come across the ether. Will jotted down 1.AW’s Morse code update and deciphered it.
Fawcett party perished hands of Indians. July 1925 east of Kuluene River.
That was it. Will turned off his desk lamp and fell asleep. The sun was up when the phone woke him. Oliver happily informed him that Alexandra had disembarked in Liverpool and was taking the train down.
Will thanked him for the news and hung up the receiver. He briefly fumed. It would have been a simple courtesy for her to send a telegram weeks ago from Brazil. She held such limited understanding of human relations; the interconnectedness, emotions, and duties of it all. It was why he believed—no matter how much of the globe she navigated and triumphed—Alexandra would forever remain among the loneliest and most lost people in the world.
—‡—
“YES, FATHER. I’M SAFELY returned. ... No, I did not spot a plum-throated cotinga whilst in Amazonia... Hello... hello?”
The line went dead. Alexandra placed down the phone.
It was nice to lounge in a well-outfitted office. A mark of success came with it, even if the ledgers were drowning in red ink. Alexandra took a seat at the warama wood desk she had shipped from Guiana along with her unneeded travel outfits. She covered her face and cried. She surmised it might have something to do with her daddy issues, having killed men upon the chapada, or worries over the fate of the expedition team. A fuzzy account of her quest for Cuiabá had been provided to the Brazilian authorities, with measures taken to safeguard Agostinho Falcoa’s honor. Her escape had been conducted in survival mode, with all caution tossed to the wind.
The more Alexandra had thought it over in her hospital bed in Corumbá, something felt missing. No comfort greeted her in London. She had called her half-brother to ask one question. He had answered it honestly, and she had hung up the phone. It was never his secret to tell, but she resented Will no less for not telling it.
Time was needed to forgive his role in the charade.
Oliver entered with her backlog of mail and placed it on the desk. Alexandra lifted out a box wrapped in brown paper that held a pungent odor.
“When did this arrive?”
“July, from Nairobi. No return address,” he said.
Alexandra cut its strings and peeled the layers away. It became clear who had sent it. Aside from the decomposed sparrow and dead jumping spider, was a card. It read “Stop writing him!” She tossed the box into her trashcan. Letters from Denys Finch Hatton, Kari Solvang, and her New York bankers were prioritized for later reading. It was long overdue for Liam Kimball to reply to her last correspondence. She was ready to chalk him up to a one-night stand. Hypersexual thoughts had tormented her for weeks, and it was unfortunate timing to lose him as a safe harbor.
Alexandra joined Oliver in the sitting room and settled at her wall map to escape to other worlds. Despite having reached Kaieteur Falls, she had suffered a disheartening plunge from her fleeting pinnacle of self-confidence and achievement.
Outside, swarms of businessmen dressed in clothing better worn in the previous century were scouring for lunch. Standing a head taller than most, glowering from across the lane, loomed Astor Lys. A grayish pallor shaded the sharp and gaunt features of his face. Oliver had scoured old newspapers for any information on the man. His only finding proved a Chicago Tribune article from 1894 that stated an Astor Lys had been sentenced to hang for molesting young girls he had tutored in piano. The rope had snapped, and he had been granted back his freedom.
The dark specter vanished. Alexandra felt conflicted if he posed a genuine danger or was just a figment of her guilty conscience. The mailman entered. He handed over a letter. It was postmarked from Morocco. Alexandra’s eyes lit up, and a faint smile bloomed.
The reaction intrigued Oliver. “Good news, I hope?”
Alexandra headed for the front door. “I need a spot of air. I shan’t be but a few hours.”
“Have you been sneaking tea?”
“Whilst aboard the ship from Rio, they served little else. Ta!”
A short walk found Alexandra idling outside an office door. Etched on its leaded glass: Dr. A.S. Berger, Psychoanalyst.
Here we go! The reception area was small, comprising four chairs and a young secretary filing her nails. Thankfully, no queue had formed. Within five minutes, a deep voice sprang from the intercom, disrupting the secretary’s focus on her manicure. Alexandra reminded herself this was no time for Alee-normal Babblebrook to roam unleashed. She entered the adjoining office.
Dr. Berger stood at his desk. Just as Will informed, he was old, bearded, wore a bowtie, round spectacles, and smoked a pipe—criteria Alexandra believed all legitimate alienists should emulate.
She said, “Good day, Doctor.”
“And to you, Miss Bathenbrook.” He extended a hand toward the fainting couch. “I understand you are here only for a single consult?”
“That should suffice.” The office was pleasing to her, hosting a large bookshelf, three potted ferns, and illuminated by lamplight wherever sunshine from the window was absent.
Alexandra laid down and folded her hands across her stomach.
The doctor rifled through a notepad. “I will run a brief mental health exam to determine how best I might aid you. What do you believe to be of greatest worry?”
Alexandra cleared her throat. “I’m prone to anxiety whence in the company of others. I panic and say silly things.”
“I see,” Berger empathized in a soothing voice. “We can often trace adult anxiety to a difficult upbringing. Were you a happy child?”
“There was always a meal on the table and shoes on my feet, so no real complaints. In retrospect, I wish my mother spent less time locking me in a closet whilst entertaining her lovers. Archibald Bathenbrook, who I just learned is not my true father, should have visited more. I’m beset with shame that my aunt exposed me to occult rituals. Then, of course, the tragedies befell my siblings.”
Berger lit his pipe. “What do you believe is at its root?”
“It stems from the voices. Since coming of age, I’ve been tormented by whispers. They’re demonic. Quite lewd, I assure you.”
“One moment.” Berger pushed the button on his desk intercom. Click. “Cancel my lunch with Doctor Zeldin, Miss Bevel. This patient needs more than one hour.” He flashed a reassuring smile.
“Demonic whispers, you say? What do they utter?”
“Murmurs that I am to birth the destroyers of mankind and similar apocalyptic hodge-podge. I pay it little heed.”
“Do these murmurs arouse you?”
“They do!” Alexandra freely admitted. “Thoughts of mating with a demon tend to pert my nipples. See?”
Berger looked over and gasped. His mouth then fell agape in listening to her unbridled confession over the iniquitous notions that filled her head—whispered by fallen angels that wished to couple with her, no less. And then flowed New Orleans. Odd tales of being drugged and posed on an altar—blindfolded and naked—so guests veiled in ornate masks and regalia could touch and kiss her belly. After twenty minutes, it mercifully concluded.
The doctor cleared his throat. “I dare ask, have you engaged in many sexual relations?”
“I’m not a harlot, Doctor!” snapped Alexandra. “I lost my virginity during my first year in college. Thereafter, I’ve partaken in only three sexual affairs, with only the last in Jerusalem proving pleasurable.”
“Is having so few lovers a problem?”
“No, but there is no shortage of men who think otherwise.” She felt bad over her spat of temper, and said, “I hope my engaging in coitus in the Holy Land does not offend your Hebrew faith.”
“Not at all. My religious beliefs do not influence my practice.”
“Do you miss your foreskin? Get upset they took it from you?”
“They had no right to proceed without my consent!” Berger stopped bewailing, sighed, and comported himself. “Back to these voices. It must be very taxing to fend off such thoughts.”
“Indubitably. I’m petrified of being impregnated again.”
Berger crunched his bushy eyebrows. “Have you considered the use of a prophylactic? A penile covering for the gentleman?”
Alexandra asked, “Do such coverings come in circumcised, non-circumcised, and barbed variations?”
Berger was unsure. “I’ll write a prescription—”
“Doctor, truly! I was trained a man’s seed must never be spilled. I’m considering anal intercourse to beat the system. Semen is a bit too salty for my taste. Anyhoo, it’s not as vulgar as drinking blood.”
Click. “Miss Bevel... are you there? Click. Hello...? Hello...?”
To his sudden panic, Alexandra reassured, “I do not boast vampiric tendencies. I held cause to cut the skin of a mule and drink its life force to avoid death in Amazonia. I do not eat people!”
“That is comforting. If you’d like to appears debatable.”
“I detest cannibals to the extreme!”
“One last query. Do you have thoughts of killing yourself, any fears others are out to harm you, or see things that are not truly there?”
“That rather sounds like three,” she noted. “I’ve not contemplated suicide... lately. I loathe the British Empire’s enslavement of the world via tea consumption. Other than visions of a Swiss solicitor competent in Bach and Beethoven stalking me and waiting for attendants in white coats to show up to restrain me, no issues whatsoever.”
“I don’t perceive a straitjacket to be in order,” Berger assured. He stopped writing upon noting his patient’s sudden expression of melancholy. “Has something I’ve said troubled you?”
Alexandra shrugged. “I found being constrained in a straitjacket very calming and it’s among my unmentioned fetishes.”
Click. “Miss Bevel, check if I can move my vacation up a week.” Berger started to ask another question but stopped himself. “May we pause? I’ll return momentarily... I think.”
Once the doctor stepped out, Alexandra rushed to his desk; curious about how well she was doing on the test. She skimmed over his notations. Filling the page were terms shrouded in Latin. He had set up a grid of three columns. A checkmark headed the first column. It relieved her to have scored well with such things as tangential mindset and psychothapy. Partial credit—indicated by a question mark in column two—was awarded for tinnitus and depression. She grimaced upon seeing words in the last column marked X: lypemania and dementia among them. She was barely passing and would need to try harder on those.
On hearing footsteps, she scurried back to the couch.
Dr. Berger entered, tried to smile, but settled on just shaking his head and reclaiming his seat.
They sat, sharing an uncomfortable silence. The ticking of the wall clock grew thunderous. Alexandra asked, “Have you determined any solution for my ailment? Is it a treatable condition?”
He stated, “I have diagnosed you with licentious female hysteria.”
It confused her, as she received a checkmark for that one.
“Miss Bathenbrook, you pose a striking conundrum,” the doctor attested. “You present as an intelligent, candid, and lucid young woman, yet the degree of psychosis and neurosis reflected in your daily life is mind-boggling. I cannot fathom how you’ve avoided a complete nervous breakdown and implore you to consider hydrotherapy to ease your symptoms.”
“I will not be chained naked to a wall and hosed down with ice water to numb my senses!” Alexandra shouted. “Never again!”
“I am a doctor, Miss Bathenbrook, not a barbarian. Hydrotherapy entails a very narrow and forceful stream of water into the pelvic region to inspire hysterical paroxysm. I can even strap you into the chair to expedite and intensify your orgasms.”
It was tempting, but she thought not. “I had a similar procedure in Brazil. I’m pleased to report not a single candiru was found.”
Click. “Miss Bevel, please inquire with the bank over the status of my retirement account.” Berger started scribbling on a pad. “In place of structured treatment, I will provide you with a prescription. If you smoke or consume alcohol to reduce stress, I implore you to do so more often.”
Alexandra left the couch to collect the prescription. She gazed at it with confusion. All that was written was: One unit. Electrex Ultra. “You believe curling my hair will help?”
“It’s a vibrator. It will ease these voices imploring sexual satiation.”
“I already have one,” she confided, “but it does not work in Europe. Something about watts and voltage.”
“This one will work.” Berger rubbed his temples. “I suggest a vigorous stimulation of the clitoris, daily.”
Alexandra hesitantly nodded. “Might you write a note confirming to my brother I attended this session and passed the examination?”
He started writing. “In parting, I advise if you value your freedom, repeat nothing you’ve stated in this office to anyone, anywhere, ever!”
“Yes, sir.” Alexandra shook his hand and left the office; pleased she had held her darker cards close to her vest. She went to the receptionist to pay her bill. As another patient was seated, she whispered to Miss Bevel, “I’ve been prescribed a vibrator to apply vigorously daily to my clitoris... What’s a clitoris?”
The young woman pointed toward Alexandra’s lap. “Down there. You’ll figure it out.”