Charlotte spent many leaden hours in the hotel room, especially after the turmoil of their arrival. She could still feel the derringer, grasped hard in the palm of her hand; the suffocating crowd of grinning faces, squashed against the car. She had travelled to many places with the Frenchman, but never to such a primitive location. Before, he had always stayed with her, in their interconnecting suite of rooms. He had never walked out into such a street, had never made appointments and plans without her. She was anxious about him, knowing how easily he could become embroiled in trouble. His predilection for the poor and the criminal led him to the most sordid and dangerous parts of town. He had a hunter’s nose for those quarters and would find them instantly in the newest, most unfamiliar locations. But he would never wander out alone. They always cruised the streets and alleys in the massive vehicle, often blocking the road and scraping the crumbling walls, causing a sensation. Sometimes, when he was too dissolute to venture out to catch his quarry, he would unfold a map of the place, pour a glass of his favourite Alsace, and ponder it for hours. He would imagine the streets, sniff the alleys, and finally select a site. She and the chauffeur would be dispatched to that place, to collect or trap a partner for his night of pleasure. It was the least favourite of her duties, and the only one that genuinely made her feel unclean. No innocent was ever kidnapped, and no one was taken against his will: Any doubts in the mind of the chosen one were quickly muted by an offering of money. But the journey back in the car embarrassed her, especially when they questioned her about what they had to do and what her part was in those delights. She had never been prudish, but the last five years had stretched her experience into realms of disbelief.
The difficulty was her kindness. She could explain the sexual details and the intricate peccadilloes that sharpened them so for the Frenchman. She could elucidate the manner of their conduct and the level of brutality that was expected of them. But she could not give voice to the instant abandonment of their humanity after the deeds were done. The suddenness of their expulsion, propelled by the total disgust of their existence. This part of the ritual she hid from, closing the doors to all her rooms, leaving the chauffeur to ringmaster the debasing event, which she suspected he enjoyed. Charlotte had no delusions that the abused vermin she had solicited would have been offended by these actions; indeed, most would have been overjoyed to escape the limpet passions of the aesthete’s bed, especially after drinking as much as they could, and with the bundle of notes grinning in their pockets. She felt pity for them, but it was the debasement of the Frenchman that so unnerved her.
He was not just a ruined brat, spending his family’s wealth on indulgence; she had known many of those. He possessed, or was possessed by, something else: a crippled soul, which might just pucker into genius, if only he allowed his wretched shred of joy to grow. She had seen it and knew it was closer to his vision than the exhaustion of his heart and the poisoning of his body. She knew that, for those who have everything in abundance, there is always a gap, a hollow that will never be filled. Long before she had met the Frenchman, before his mother had even conceived of proposing that Charlotte become the companion of her beloved son, she had known of the hunger and some of the ways of its manifestation. The fruitless mangle of emotions, spurred and strangled by the auto-cannibalism of guilt. The humiliation of being animal, the whipping into cruelty of lost affections. She had accepted his mother’s offer out of kindness and the need to provide the possibility of change. They had thought she needed the money and the elevated social position—perhaps she had. Nevertheless, it was a good bargain. The son had a companion whom he would learn to trust and who would give a glint of beauty to all his endeavours. He could wear her proudly in all Parisian society, and she would neither expect nor demand anything from him. The mother could entrust her son to a bright and elegant creature, who would keep him on at least one fixed rail, which was considered respectable and normal in decent society; moreover, she would own the young woman and never have to suffer the machinations and spite of a daughter-in-law.
But these were malign and tragic fantasies; she knew her son’s appetites ran in opposite directions. Previous attempts to arouse his masculinity had been woeful disasters. She had supplied him with a comely mistress for his twentieth birthday, but the poor woman was driven to distraction by her supposed lover’s endless, limp readings of interminably long poems. So monstrous was the abuse that she had demanded one hundred thousand francs in compensation from the old woman, for the aural and temporal violation. And Charlotte? She could settle and pretend for a while. There was no need for real marriage in her life, certainly not yet. And thus it came to pass that the two strangers became witnesses in a shared life.
But he was still missing. She looked across the colonial-style room at the grandfather clock, emaciated in its light, timbered case. She thought of calling the chauffeur but could not face hearing his monochromatic indifference. Dinner was at seven, and after all the fuss the Frenchman had made about the menu, she dreaded the chef’s reaction to a postponement. She went to the window, threw open its juddering glass, and stepped out onto the balcony. This had been the only hotel in Essenwald of sufficient quality to satisfy the Frenchman’s fastidious requirements. They had taken the entire upper floor. The balcony extended around the building. She began to walk its rectangular length. Peering into the crowd below and shading her eyes with her long, delicate hand, she looked into the distance.
Far off, the black shadow of the Vorrh could be seen, sealing the city on its northern side. She searched the faces and the gaits of the seething streets beneath her, unable to find him in their constant shift and bustle. She became suddenly aware that one of the crowd was still and facing her. He was tall and motionless, his face hidden by a tightly wrapped ghutra of black silk. She could feel his stare, even from the distance of several hundred feet. Coldness plucked at her optic nerves with a bony nail; her sight flickered in distress and she grabbed at the squeaking door. From behind her, there was a sound on the landing outside the room. Approaching footsteps, unfamiliar and ponderous, drew her away from the street and its intruder and back into the room, composed and ready to receive anybody. No one knocked, but the brass door handle slowly turned and the Frenchman quietly entered. So pleased was she to see him that she didn’t instantly notice the strangeness of his approach.
She greeted him with lapping warmth. He smiled gently and touched her arm. This was unknown. She was dismayed, overwhelmed, and silenced by it. He deflated into one of the enormous Moroccan armchairs and said, with eyes already shut, “Charlotte, my dear, I am a little tired.”
The evening was luxuriously calm. The perfume of the jasmine that twisted through the wrought iron of the balcony fluttered into the room. The fireflies buzzed the dusk in overlapping eclipses, and the frogs and cicadas accelerated a chorus. There was a settled peace in their suite of rooms. He was asleep in the chair where he had collapsed. She had checked that he was well, then taken off his shoes and placed his hat and cane in the hall. The cane felt curiously weightless, her excessive use of muscle giving it an illusion of levitation that made her laugh.
He slept for three hours before waking slowly, creaking in the leather and blinking into the room as she lit the lamps. There was a softness about his eyes that had never been present before. She saw the child in the old man, wonder and contentment where cynicism and greed had been scratched before. This was the man she always knew but hardly ever met.
“Come and sit with me,” he said. “I want to tell you about my black friend and his vision of the forest.”
They talked for a very long time, pausing the conversation only to fetch wine and delay the dinner. He told her of his new friend, of his kindness and his lessons, of the chapel and the saints and a living Adam, somewhere at the heart of the wilderness of trees. He wanted her to meet “the black prince” and share in his tales of belief and wonder. Quietly, out of nowhere, he asked, “The little silver crucifix that you sometimes wear; is it of great sentimental value to you?” She looked a little confused, and he continued, “It’s just that I so want to give my prince a gift; I wondered if I might purchase it from you.”
“It’s of no real value to me,” she lied. “I have several others; please do take it.”
He was delighted and crossed the little space between them to kiss her cheek. His mouth was surprisingly cold. His request satisfied, he continued to talk about his day.
They moved into the dining room, without a break in his enthusiasm or a pause in her amazement. It was to be a much lighter dinner than he usually demanded: only sixteen courses that night. At times, during his eloquent nibbling, he would adopt Seil Kor’s voice and dash ornate French with a rich Arabic bias and sonorous tones across the tabled landscape of food. She would laugh loudly at his pronunciations and roll against the joy that projected them. He was a genius at imitation. He could copy all voices, whether they belonged to strangers or friends, animals, or even the inanimate. He once held a party of poets spellbound by his portrayal of a collection of old hinges. She loved it when he was playful, when his gift was not soured by malice.
It was almost midnight when he left the table and sat down to the piano with a cigar. She went to the window and walked out into the glittering night. The city was already sleeping, and the heavens took up the sound of the creatures below, the stars making a notation of their trills and bells, which rang in the darkness like glass. Whispers of Satie joined them from the room, and there seemed, in this inimitable moment, to be an agreement between time and the proximity of all things, as if clumsy humans might have a place in all this infinite, perfect darkness, if only they played at the edge. Out of sight, blindfolded, and in agreement.
Charlotte smelt the coffee when she awoke; indeed, it might have been its bitter warmth that quaffed her dreams. She slipped on a yellow robe and opened the door to the Frenchman’s room; he was already awake and seated at the breakfast table. He had never been known to stir before noon. Slightly unsettled, she joined him at the table, an empty cup in her hesitant hand, her eyes never leaving his excited expression. He smiled.
“A beautiful morning, Charlotte!”
“Yes,” she said, noticing for the first time that thick shafts of light divided the room, motes of dust swimming expressively in their beams, giving the simultaneous impressions of animation and stillness.
“Did I tell you last night that today I go to the Vorrh?” he asked. “Seil Kor is coming for me this morning.” It was the first time he had used his new friend’s name; previously, he had referred to him as a “native,” a “black,” or, on occasion, as his “black prince.”
She was unmoved by the name and unsurprised he had endowed his young guide with the same moniker as a character from his Impressions of Africa. She had never seriously undertaken to read any of his books, poems, or essays, only the letters he addressed to her. It was not part of her duties. She knew that it would ruin their relationship to hold an opinion on his works: She was merely a woman, and they both preferred it that way. However, she had once flipped through the pages of the African book. She had found it confused and obscure. No doubt it was art, for she knew him to be a man of dangerous appetites and total selfishness. That was what made the smiling man before her such a disconcerting sight.
“I have packed my bag for a three-day expedition,” he said.
Her shock at discovering that he knew where the luggage was kept was augmented by the revelation that he was capable of packing it. “I shall take the Smith & Wesson, the one with the pearl grips, and leave you the Colt, the Mannlicher, and the Cloverleaf, for your protection. May I borrow your derringer for my little journey?”
“Why, of course,” she replied, “anything you wish.”
They always travelled with a small armoury, ostensibly for the pleasure of target shooting, but always with the excuse of protection. He was an excellent shot and had enjoyed teaching her how to handle and fire his collection of pistols. The guns also gave her some confidence against the “street visitors” he often brought home or sent the chauffeur to find. His taste ran hard into the criminal and the lower manual labourer. They were easy to find and would fulfil all of his sexual morbidities, but they were tricky to get rid of afterwards, difficult to scrape off the shoe. Countless times, she had returned home to find some half-naked urchin or dockyard worker going through her belongings, ejected from the Frenchman’s bedroom after the brutality, so that he might drown and wallow in the true depth of his debasement. Countless times, she had been forced to haggle over the price of flesh. The currency of usury had become part of her vocabulary; she dealt with it efficiently and from a distance. Some small fold of her enjoyed talking to the exotic underclass about the most intimate actions of vice. She felt like an ornithologist, or an entomologist, viewing horrid little wonders through the wrong end of a perfect telescope. But she could not abide the blackmailers, those who went too far and allowed greed to ooze out with the secretions of their bodies. There had been many hushed-up cases, many insidious threats to expose his obsessions. She had brokered them all. Sometimes she was forced to enlist the support of the chauffeur, who liked to wrap metal chains around his fist when dealing with the stubborn.
“Are you going alone with Seil Kor?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh yes,” he said, in a theatrically disinterested way. “He is not to be one of my ‘paramours,’ ” he added, a trace of the old acid leaking back into his speech. “He is a friend and noble person of these regions—I would like very much to introduce you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “I would like that. Don’t forget this.” She handed him a tiny, delicate package of folded tissue paper containing the cheap, silver-plated crucifix that her first love had given to her at the age of thirteen.
On the steps of the hotel, the light was blinding. He wore his Eskimo spectacles and pith helmet, with a costume that needed at least fifteen native bearers to maintain it. Childlike, he gripped his suitcase and strained through the brightness to see his friend in the whirling, dusty clouds of passersby. Charlotte stood beside him, arms folded and trepidation rising.
“There!” he cried. “By the tree; he is waving!”
She could barely distinguish a single figure, just a mass of activity in the luminous dust. The Frenchman stepped down the stairs and into the throng, motioning to Charlotte to join him, but the dust was unbearable, and she put her hand over her mouth, averting her face from the onslaught. He reached Seil Kor across the street and tried to explain about meeting Charlotte, but she was lost in the crowd and his guide was anxious to depart. He gave in to the unfolding events and they made their way out of the throng—their journey to the Vorrh had begun.
Seil Kor took the Frenchman to his home, far across town in the old quarter. From there to the station was only ten minutes’ walk, he promised.
“Why do we go to your house first?” he asked.
“To change,” Seil Kor said, without emphasis.
“But this is my exploring costume,” whined the Frenchman, who was beginning to be irritated by the change in plans.
“Trust me, master, it is better for you to melt into the crowd, become one of us. This way you will see more and get closer to the heart of the forest. We have to travel for a whole day on the train, and I want you to be comfortable.”
They walked down a high, mud-walled street that changed its curve every fifteen paces or so. Alleyways led off at frequent intervals, and there was a sense of a great populace concealed behind the twisting façade.
They turned again, stepping into a long, straight street with two ancient wooden doors set into its crumbling surface. Seil Kor hammered on the first door and, moments later, the second one opened.
They stepped into a broad, sand-coloured courtyard with a square well and a palm tree dominating its luxurious simplicity. A small, grinning boy stepped from behind the gate and closed them in. Seil Kor clapped his hands loudly above his head, and the doors of the long, low building that occupied one side of the enclosure opened. Vividly dressed women emerged carrying a carpet, a squat folding table, and brass and copper bowls of fruit and sweetmeats. In a quick flurry, it was all set up under the shade of the tree, and the Frenchman was shown to the guest seat at its centre. The women brought piles of native robes and Arabic-style headgear for the dandy to try on. He liked this game and, once he got over his essential stiffness, became completely engaged in his transformation. He loved to dress up and had often donned the national costume of the countries he had visited before. But it had never felt this real before, and his guide had never been so gracious, so encouraging. He tried on many different styles and colours, spinning and giggling as the women and the boy applauded. He bowed. They all bubbled over in this pantomime of innocence. Carefree and conceited, he thought to add a dash to his apparel and dug the pistol out of his case, sticking it jauntily in his belt. The party froze. Seil Kor raised his hands and the women covered their eyes.
“Master, what is this? Why do you bring this?” His bony finger shook as it pointed towards the gun. “Please, leave it in the bag. Where we go is sacred; such a thing is a blasphemy there.”
“But what about wild animals and those savage people?” the Frenchman stuttered.
“We will be walking with the Lord God; his angels will guard us.”
He dropped the pistol back in the bag and stepped slowly away from it. Seil Kor met him with a grin, and he moved to his friend’s side, gripping his arm conciliatorily.
“Oh! One moment,” said the Frenchman. “I have something for you.” He removed the little tissue-paper package from his person and carefully unwrapped it, holding the gleaming crucifix up for his new friend to admire.
“For me?” asked Seil Kor, genuinely surprised.
The Frenchman nodded and handed him the chain; he fixed it at once around his neck. The cross shone brightly against Seil Kor’s jet-black skin and the others applauded the gift all the way to the door as they prepared to depart. By the time they crossed the threshold, the Frenchman was unrecognisable. He was happy and very at ease in his flowing robes. A prince of the desert, he thought—if only he had a photograph for his collection. He resolved to have one taken on their return, on the steps of the hotel, when he and Seil Kor would present themselves to Mademoiselle Charlotte, in celebration of their triumphant expedition.
The moon rose full on that same clear night, bringing with it a wind from the distant sea, a gale that gained force as it swept inland towards the Vorrh. By four o’clock, an hour after the good shepherd Azrael had collected his flock from the world of the living and the night had settled back in the last three fathoms of its darkness, the wind shook Essenwald with a near-tempest velocity. It rattled the old windows in its finest hotel; Charlotte turned over in the warmth of her sleep, untroubled by the gale, tightening the crisp sheet and plaid blanket about her untouched contour. She dreamt of an American who would walk into her forgetfulness and ask about tonight. She was in Belgium, where she slept all day, and a clock without hands said it was an impossible 1961. The young man was telling her that he was a poet. He had a large, kind, soft face, but it was difficult to hear him because of the clattering, glassy sound that emanated from his pencil and notebook.