House of Corruption (19 page)

She noticed men turning their heads—subtle, trying not to be noticed, but she saw them looking. She could feel their eyes on her, drifting across her pretty face, imaginations leering past her dress and petticoat and garters to the smooth curve of her stomach and breasts and thighs.

You bastards and your lusts
, she thought with disgust,
undressing women with your minds
. She wanted to tear open their throats and lap the liquor from their veins.

Animals they were, all of them. Animals wearing men’s skin.

Blasphemy, professor? You have no idea
.

19

When Reynard descended the gangplank off the
Kalabakang
, he had bid Kiria Carlovec good evening and walked in the opposite direction. He did not look back.

He dissolved into the randomness of the city, down narrow brick alleys, across wide avenues where carts and coaches shared the road with the autobus, slipping again into less traveled lanes to avoid the glare of lamps. He reconnected with Rue Canebière and continued inland, making distance between himself and the stinking quay. He ignored beggars who cried out to him. He passed the occasional uniformed
gendarmes
out patrolling their beat, resisting the urge to bury his fist between their eyes.

He turned south along Rue Saint-Ferréol where the crowds faded into the sound of his own footsteps. The further he walked, the more the buildings began to change; whitewashed plaster buildings and framed European tenements gave way to older shops with rounded archways, the grays and eggshell blues fading into browns and adobe. He passed cafés selling shaved pork and couscous, the dimly-lit streets redolent with urine and spices. Without a coat he plunged his hands into his pockets and tightened his arms against his body, his thoughts so pervasive he barely noticed the darkness coming on.

He considered what he might accomplish, what a few hundred francs might buy. Records could be procured. Men could be bought. In seventy-two hours he could learn every unscheduled stop of the
Kalabakang
, who descended and who boarded, the exact nature of its cargo. For another hundred francs he might even learn what every member of its crew had for breakfast.

She could be anywhere
.

Lasha and her captor could already be slumming on a low-cost steamer through the Suez, riding ponies on one of the Napoleonic roads through Italy, on a rickety train to Istanbul or headed over the Juras for Germany. She could be lying under a tarpaulin in a filthy galley, wearing her favorite evening dress, festering in a—

No
, he commanded himself.
No
.

She is alive
.

He forced himself to think of Kiria Carlovec, the gentle curve of her throat and the straight line of her jaw, the black eyebrows she meticulously plucked until they arched like thin lines of ink. He imagined her smell, like coffee and roses, the way she walked by placing each foot
just so
. She was a careful, calculated thing, someone whose composure made him suspect duplicity. But why? Promote an image that was not her own? Or manage a life fraught with more horror than she cared to admit?

He could not deny her courage aboard the
Kalabakang
. A lesser woman would have fainted at the sight of such violence. A lesser man would have emptied his stomach all over the floor, but he managed to stay strong because...

Because?

Because she was there beside him?

It was on Rue Paradis when he realized he was being followed.

He caught the rhythm early, the same
clack, clack, clack
of footsteps for three, perhaps four blocks. By the gait he knew it was a woman, matching his pace some ten yards behind. She had slowed when he slowed, accelerated when he did. He did not pause to look. He continued straight but focused on the sounds of her movement—stockings sliding against a petticoat, the swish of a hem as it brushed against the sidewalk. He tilted his head and inhaled, hoping to catch a scent of perfume. The stink of horse manure permeated the street.

At a fruit stand he feigned an interest, pausing to admire a stack of mandarins, stealing a glance as she passed: a petite blond woman in a white dress and heeled boots with a closed parasol at her shoulder, her hair wrapped in a psyche knot and tied with a white bow. She passed, continued a half block further, and Reynard followed. Downwind, he could now smell her—like lavender and soap, a scent like—

Lasha
?

He accelerated as pedestrians filled the gap. She crossed the street. He stepped off the curb only to stop, retreat, as an omnibus clacked between them. When it finally moved aside, she was gone.

He dashed across the street. Beyond waited the sprawling outdoor Immigrant’s Market: clustered tents and canopies squatted around a large public square beside carts filled with fruits and vegetables, antiques, old books, kitchenware, pots, clothing, spices, furniture, rugs, baskets, and rolls upon rolls of multi-colored fabric. Voices came from customers and vendors alike—French, Arabic, German, Italian. Amid many lanterns, they haggled and wandered and reveled in the lovely chaos of commerce.

Reynard plunged into the midst. He passed old men crying for his attention, women displaying bottles and beads as if they hawked treasures along the dusty streets of Egypt. A bonfire burned in the center of the square where men with fez hats danced to wooden
dumbeks
and an out-of-tune, guitar-like
oud
.

There he saw her, illuminated by the bonfire’s flickering light.

She was looking at him.

What am I doing?

Reynard retreated into the crowd, heart hammering against his chest, his face burning with shame. She was not following him—he had been following
her
. All evening he had been looking,
hunting
for any girl who bore the least resemblance to his sister. What would he have said if he caught her? Ask her name? Grab her shoulders and embrace her, frighten her, demand she forgive him, assure him—

Would you terribly mind if I called you Lasha
?

He pulled himself from the market and regained the street. With a quick touch at his belly he was glad his money belt was still there; perhaps he could find a pub. Perhaps they served vodka.

He left, and did not look back. Had he done so, he would have seen her looking with a smile. Watching.

20

Kiria ran down many steps carved from rock, deep into a cold, heavy darkness. Her footing failed. She reached to steady herself against the side of the stone wall and gritty slime oozed over her fingers. She recoiled, impulsively popping her fingers into her mouth. The taste of slime—rancid, heavy with vinegar—made her retch.

Ahead, the air rattled with angry words, climaxing with a bloodcurdling scream.

Go back
, she thought.
Go back
.
Why is she screaming
?

Shadows spilled away and orange light stabbed her eyes, the air was saturated with smoke and the sickly-sweet nectar of death. Here was her dream-place, a gaping maw of a cavern rising high above her head and falling below her feet like some cavernous pocket of Hell.

Human bones piled at her feet. A thousand skulls leered, mandibles gaping, ribcages, vertebrae and spines, countless little bones, heaps like piles of discarded ivory, the lot slippery with slime. The stairs were gone, the firelight gone, the dark heavy with the same graveyard stink. She touched at her face, reminding herself she was alive.

Alive
!

Rotten hands slid up her legs. Bony fingers grabbed like spiders and pulled, tugged, until she fell into the nest of skeletal bodies. She kicked and screamed. Bony hands crawled into her mouth. Brittle fingers pressed against her eyelids, forced them open. In the midst of that squirming pile of dead she saw the woman’s face, the same charcoal flesh and muscle stretched over blackened bone, eyes melted from their sockets, her long hair black like burnt glass and stinking of lye.

At first Kiria thought this horrible apparition was her mother, long dead. Then it became Miss Lourdes, then a native Dayak woman with charred tattoos splattered across her face, then another woman and another and another and another, a thousand women screaming until there was nothing but a skull wreathed in dead hair.

The apparition smiled her lipless smile, and drew her in.

My little girl
.

She awoke.

She wept bitterly at that last, horrible image, willing herself to breathe, pressing her hands against her face as she sobbed at her poisonous terror. The sight of that terrible woman with her ruined face dominated the reality of the silk sheets, the ordinary ticking of a clock, the smells of cool air and candles and canna lilies.

She reached for a match with trembling hands, lighting four candles set in a candelabra on her bedstand. Each successive light revealed broad curtains of ruffled taffeta, a stuffed embroidered chair and sofa, a sitting desk with its requisite writing set, and more vases of cannas that, as she considered it, felt more appropriate for a funeral parlor. They had chosen the
Hotel Vauban
because it stubbornly refused the encroachment of modern thinking; it carried no electricity, no telephone. No one could bother them. The dusty smell, coupled with the chill, meant the coal in the furnace had long died.

The memories of the
Kalabakang
’s galley returned and she willed them away. She commanded herself to keep breathing, to think of her friend Marion’s happy face, her laughter, the delicate way she ate, the fine curves of her handwriting, how she blushed when a gentleman spoke to her. Kiria tried to think of beaches and hot cocoa and palm trees, the colors of her garden, the smells of begonias, the morning church bells from the hilltop—

My little girl
.

“Go away,” she whispered.

At first her dreams were came inanimate and bodiless, but in recent weeks they clarified until she feared she was going mad. Some days the residue lasted for hours; more than once she spent a large portion of a day on the ship’s deck during the Atlantic crossing, hoping the air and spray might make her feel clean.

She lifted her hands to wipe her tears and recoiled, expecting slime.

A dream, a dream, a dream
.

She examined her chewed fingernails, the cracks in her knuckles.

Marion
. She began to cry.

I’m so sorry
.

She rolled to her side and clutched her pillow between her breasts. Her body felt too small and too frail as if the sadness, the loneliness, might tear open her skin.

How can anyone bear such pain
? 

A faint knocking rapped at her door. She sat up, startled.

“Miss Carlovec?”

Reynard
.

They had not seen him, had not heard a word since he left the quay. She looked to the clock on the mantle: seventeen minutes past midnight. She felt equally embarrassed and irritated, surprised at his audacity, at the softness of his voice.

“Miss Carlovec,” he said. “Do you need assistance?”

“I am fine,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Just a moment.”

She climbed out of bed, pulled a shawl over her shoulders and shuffled to the door, feeling a disaster, wishing Reynard would just go away. He had heard her sobbing. She took a deep breath.

“It is after midnight,” she said through the door.

“May I speak with you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Please.”

“You forget your manners,” she said. She envisioned him standing there, his gaze boring into the wood. She pulled the shawl tighter. “We can all meet for breakfast.”

“I shan’t manage a minute’s rest,” he said.

“That is not my concern.”

“I shall sleep out here in the hall.”

“Do not make a fool of yourself.”

“Too late for that.”

“Blazes,” she said with a sigh. “You must wait.”

She took her time. She washed her face, combed her hair, and slid a heavy cotton robe over her cambric nightgown and silk undergarments. She pulled her dark tresses behind her shoulders and tied them with ribbon, sliding errant strands out of her face. She slid her bare feet into a pair of slippers, making sure the hem of her nightgown hung low enough to hide the olive tease of her calves. The last thing she needed was to enflame the man’s base instincts, especially this time of night.

Just go away
.

She opened the door a crack, hoping he had left. He was still there, pacing, wearing his open-collared white shirt, brown vest and slacks, his black leather shoes. At first he did not notice her, too engrossed picking at a fingernail with his teeth.

“Yes,” she said.

He stopped, red-faced. “My apologies, but I could not help—”

“Are you eavesdropping?”

“No. I...I’ve only just arrived. Passing by I thought I heard, well, I was concerned that—”

“I cannot imagine what you think you heard.”

“Oh.” He looked at her, confused. “I—”

“Good night.”

“I suppose you do not want to admit it,” he said. “One cannot see such horrors and not be affected. May I come in?”

“Excuse me?”

“I must speak with you.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” That sent him pacing again, like a caged animal. “Well
yes
, perhaps, I don’t know. Not particularly. I have gone over everything. I see those people in that horrible ship, imagine Lasha lying there. I hear you weeping, and then I—”

She flushed. “It was unexpected.”

“But appropriate.”

She looked up and down the hallway, her hand clutching the collar of her robe. She had allowed this conversation to go on far too long. Someone might be wandering the halls. They might see her in her nightgown with a man just outside her door. What would people say?

“Good night,
monsieur
,” she said.