Mad Woman in the Attic: Chapter 7

Mad Woman in the Attic

By Mad Woman


Disclaimer:

The characters of Gabriel Knight, Grace Nakamura, Detective Mosely and the legend of the Schattenjagers are creations and trademarks of Jane Jensen and Sierra-On-Line.

Apologies:

The writer of this piece of fan fiction has taken liberties in the atmosphere, history, culture and geography of New Orleans. Please be aware the writer has NEVER been to New Orleans, although it is a life-long wish. Please also be aware that the writer is not American. As far as it is possible and made known to the writer, inaccuracies are corrected. But we are only human and therefore have to live with our mortal inadequacies.

Thank you.


Part One

I doubt sometimes whether a quiet & unagitated life
would have suited me--yet I sometimes long for it.

-- Byron


Chapter Seven

The Attic, known as the Hard Rock Cafe for the literary intellectuals, set up shop within the French Quarters of New Orleans, Louisiana two years after its first branch in Manhattan. It capitalized on New Orleans' reputation as the place of residence of many famous and occasionally even legendary literary figures--from the modern gothic writers Anne Rice and Gabriel Knight, to Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winner, William Faulkner. Much is exploited on the New Orleans as a throbbing pulse of American literature, and this was The Attic's success. Fans who had come to seek out the mansion where Louis met Lestat the Vampire, or St. George Books where Blake Backlash laid the alluring Voodoo Queen Maria Gladys--all of them, every single one of them are drawn to The Attic.

But this week, just for this week, the whole of Louisiana and the American South comes to The Attic for The Mad Woman in the Attic--Jade Nolan. Angelic Goddess of the Acoustic Guitar.

Let the Mad Woman Out. Never, never put her Fire Out.

In Jane Eyre, written by Charlotte Brontë, when Bertha--the original Mad Woman in the Attic was escaped from her confinement for the last time, she set the whole house on Fire.

So tonight in The Attic, let Jade Nolan out. And let her set the house on Fire.

* * * * *

It was only after they had arrived in The Attic that Grace and Emma Kobayashi found to their chagrin that they were not as earlier as they had thought they were. There were no tables left and the staff at the entrance expressed little optimism in them getting a seat tonight.

"You shoulda called last week," he told Grace.

"It was a last minute decision," Grace explained in exasperation.

"I can't help you there. You'll have to wait in the line with the others. We'll let some of them in at seven, when the show starts but then it's standing room only, and no dinner."

Grace sighed, glancing back at Emma guilty. "Well, thanks. Look, Em, I'm sorry. I should have called?"

Emma shrugged. "Tough luck. So, where do we go?"

"Grace?"

Grace turned to the direction of the voice, eyes widened in disbelief at first, then narrowed when she saw Jill with Gabriel. Jill smiled lightly back at her as she moved up to the man working in The Attic.

"Do you have a Jill Callahan on the list?"

The staff checked a clipboard. Then he looked up, and nodded, "Yes. Miss Tremayne had added it in. Janice," he motioned to a waitress. "Please follow her to your seat. Janice, bring Miss Callahan and her guest to the table reserved by Miss Tremayne."

Gabriel fidgeted where he stood. Jill said to Grace, "If you don't mind sharing a table, I could get you in."

"No, thanks, we're going somewhere else," Grace replied flatly.

"Are we?" Emma Kobayashi chirped at once. Grace frowned at her friend.

"I thought you might want authentic New Orleans," Grace said.

"You suggested this place, Grace. Besides, I want to meet your friends. Hello, Emma Kobayashi," she greeted Gabriel.

Gabriel shook her hand. "Gabriel," he said.

"Her boss," Emma concluded. Grace rolled back her eyes in resignation.

"So?" Jill questioned. Janice, the waitress, was waiting.

"Thanks," Grace said reluctantly as she followed the waitress into the restaurant.

Gabriel happened to meet Emma's eyes as he was walking in. There was an amused glimmer the way she regarded him.

It's going to be a long night, he sighed.

* * * * *

"You're here for research?" Grace asked as they waited for their orders to arrive. Gabriel and Jill across them, with a seat between him and Grace. Their table was a strange multi-ethnic combination of one German, one Irish and two Japanese--all Americans.

"Yes, along with the compulsory teaching I have to do. Afterall, Tulane did invite me to speak on French Literature of the 19th Century, particularly the Marquis de Sade. Interesting man. Nuts of course, but you have to admire some of his writings. Imagine a Japanese-American delivering lectures on French Literature and the essays of Marquis de Sade. Mother would be outraged."

"I imagine they expect you to talk more about haiku and sushi."

"Actually, I do," Emma smiled. " I have often impressed upon my students the aesthetic brevity of a haiku. Especially when it comes to their theses. Goodness, the students just ramble on with their essays," she moaned.

"How do your students find you?"

"Oh, they are just awed with adoration. When they're not awed with confusion that is."

Grace laughed heartily. "Yes, I remember. The girl who read Camus in original French and did her book report in the same language. You were awe-inspiring even back in junior high."

"French lessons at seven, German at nine. You can't help being over-educated with my parents. But I truly cannot conceive of any self-respecting academic reading L'Etranger in translation."

Grace furrowed her brows in chagrin. "Em, I do that." Kobayashi moved a hand to her chest in mocked horror.

"I have also succumbed to reading Japanese in translation. May I be faulted for that too?" Grace teased. Emma Kobayashi lifted her hands in surrender.

"I confess, I am guilty of the same crime," she continued, sighing. Then, "I am a Professor of French Literature with several well-known papers to my name. I speak French and German more fluently than many native-speakers and I know enough Russian to make a Russian sailor blush--but circumstances have been contrived in such a manner that I do not possess enough Japanese to order sushi in an Osaka restaurant. The irony of it. The second generation Japanese syndrome. My parents used to beat their chests in grief over our not being able to speak what they call, 'the native tongue'. Goodness, Mark and I were raised American by our parents. They assimilation on themselves and on their children. Can they truly blame us if we're more American than Japanese?"

"We are Americans."

"Japanese-Americans," Emma said with feelings. "All my life, I am clearest on one thing: I will never be judged the same way as a WASP American. I have to be better and smarter to succeed. I hate it when I see Asian-Americans in school not working hard. Everything we have, is a gift. I cannot accept anyone throwing chances away."

"Are you referring to me, Em?" Grace said quietly. Kobayashi smiled wanly. She said to Gabriel:

"Do you think she's throwing away her chances?"

Gabriel shrugged non-commitedly and glanced in Jill's direction. His present store assistant shrugged with a smirk and just looked away. He returned to their conversation only to find Grace glaring at him for no reasons at all. What's with her? PMS?

The coolness around their table was broken by the arrival of a new addition. Sombre and stately in a cream blouse and black velvet pants-suit, Ashley Tremayne stared down at Jill, and said simply, "So, you're She."

"Hi. Jade mentions you all the time in her letters."

"She must write short letters."

"Not to me."

"Doubtless she has much to recount of her multifarious romantic indiscretions," Ashley retorted. She shifted her eyes around the room, unsettled.

"Hi, you might remember me," Gabriel smiled, waved. Ashley stared down her nose at him.

"No, not really," she breathed. Quietly, Grace snickered. Jill just smirked.

"What--you don't remember--from the cathedral--Gabriel Knight?" Gabriel was flummoxed.

"Ah." Recognition dawned. "The writer. The bad writer."

"Surely that's a matter of opinion. Look--you really don't remember me? We've met--last night," Gabriel was starting to break into sweat here. Jill touched his arm lightly, chuckling.

"Look, Knight--quit while you're ahead," she smirked.

"Yes, Mr Gabriel Knight. I do not know what kind of pick-up lines you practice on your species of floozies, but I hardly believe you and I move in similar social circles."

"Touché, Knight," Jill said softly. Gabriel crossed his arms and shifted in his seat. Then, "You're a snob, you know that?" Jill threw into Ashley's face. "Jade never mentioned that 'bout you."

"That is a lesser sin compare to She and my sister," Ashley returned.

Jill turned her chair to face Gabriel. "Don't you just lurve the way she refers to me in the pronoun? Like something out of a Stephen King novel--She. It. Cool, huh?"

"She. From Haggard's famous gothic novel. 'She Who Must Be Obeyed'. Do not expect me to allow what you do to my sister."

"I did nothing to her."

"That is an assessment I do not share."

"And one you are too narrow-minded to accept. You're nothing like your sister. Or your mother."

"You are aware of course, that you are attempting parallel between two clinically insane women and yours truly. In this context it hardly seems unflattering for unshared family characteristics."

"Grace," Emma Kobayashi intervened, "You must take me out more often with your friends. They are so much fun. Much better than dusty academics."

Grace shook her head, thoroughly embarrassed. She glared at Gabriel, whom she saw as the root cause of her friend having to witness this confrontation between two strangers. But the accused was at this very moment fuming with his own steam. Perhaps as an icing to the cake, Jill suddenly struck a hand gesture which many cultures understood to be socially unacceptable.

Ashley Tremayne half-sneered, gloating over a battle won perhaps. Then a hand grabbed her arm from behind, and an older woman, somewhere in her mid-thirties, whispered hesitantly into her ear.

"She will be here," Ashley snapped at the older woman.

"Well then, where is she?"

"I have no idea."

"Why not?"

"Am I my sister's keeper?" Ashley barked, agitation straining at the veins near her throat.

"In this case you are. Look, Tremayne: Your sister's contract states explicitly on the penalties should she fail to perform on any Attic scheduled concert. I don't have to--"

"Oh, of course you don't have to remind me of your blasted contract! You keep reminding me of that damned piece of document everytime you get within a five feet radius of me! Forgive my French, Grayson but BUG OFF! She'll be here! She loves the spotlight and this whole Mad Woman in the Attic persona! God! You people feed a damn delusional child these fantasies and expect me to pick up the shit! Well, now, stuff it up yours!" Grayson stalked off. Tremayne turned to Emma unexpectedly:

"I did not realize you were acquainted with certain present company, Professor Kobayashi."

"Well," Emma shrugged. "Neither did I."

Ashley Tremayne sneered. Then she saw Grayson gesturing to her. "Excuse me," she said to no one in particular, and left.

"Well, there is an accent but her French was most fluent. And so eloquent," Emma said light-heartedly. Sensing the prevailing heaviness around the table, she asked aloud, "Who was that, the one who argued with Ms Tremayne?"

Jill sighed, answered, "Most probably Danielle Grayson: Jade's manager from The Attic Records. Jade calls her Dani. Most people does--except for Ashley Tremayne of course. She called Dani, Grayson. When she's feeling civil that is. Most of the time Tremayne calls her something else."

"A lot of tension between those two," Emma remarked. "Yet both of them are worrying over the same person. I can't wait for this infamous Jade Nolan to make her appearance."

"It's still early for the performance anyway," Jill said distractedly.

A young man, barely out of his early twenties, had stepped nervously on the semi-circle stage set for all the performance and recitals in The Attic. As if through mutual respect, there was a hushed silence from the audience as they anticipated the poetry recital.

Grace checked her watch.

5:25 pm.

* * * * *

7:25 pm.

The waiter had cleared their tables more than an hour ago. Grace was restless in her seat and Gabriel was obviously uncomfortable. Jill was no better, biting her fingernails. Just as the crowd was getting disgruntled about the lateness of the concert, Jade Nolan emerged and headed for the stage.

She sat down, her guitar held in place. A member of the staff adjusted the microphone at the space between her guitar and her face. Without further ado, she started to sing:

Mad Woman in the Attic
A Stranger wearing my Familiar Face
A Mad Woman going up ablaze
Though you can put out the house on fire
My soul is an Ember that will never tire
I am a Mad Woman
In Your Attic
Let me Out
Let my all consuming fire out
Come on in
And let me Out
Never, Never put my Fire out
A Mad Woman in the Attic
A Stranger with a charred burnt Face
You think now I'm just a basket case
But you have only burned flesh and body raw
Now Hear a Soul's enraged passions roar
You are a Mad Woman
In My Attic
Let me In
Let me my self-consuming fire in
Come on Out
And let it Out
I'm putting my Fire Out
Mad Woman in the Attic
A Whore with Mary's Unblemished, Unpainted Face
Trapped by you in this dark abysmal holy place
Though my wings' plucked I can't fly
But I have a soul that refuses to die
I am The Mad Woman in the Attic
Come on in
Bring me Out
Let me in to bring your fire Out
Let me out to bring your fire Out
I'm coming Out
My Endless Passions' Fire's Out
Never, never put my Fire Out, Out, Out, Out, Out…

Her voice trailed off, like the dying wisp of a cigarette smoke. A crowd of respectful silence, and suddenly, applause that fell heavily like hailstones. Jade Nolan suddenly rose, and left the stage. Everyone was stunned.

Jill Callahan sprung from her seat at the same time. She followed Jade Nolan through the door with the sign 'Staff Only'.

Rising murmurs of protest. Grayson had rushed to the stage to apologize. Grace and Gabriel looked at each other in perplexity. Emma Kobayashi just smiled.

"I guess show is cancelled," she grinned.

* * * * *

Avoiding glances. Shuffled feet. Lips on the edge of something spoken. The disarray of bodily rituals that conveyed the human condition of discomfort better than the silence looming like a medieval fortress wall. Polite small talks to puncture the wall. Yet, better to puncture loud silent walls with reed arrows.

Grace stood at the door to her car, her keys in hand but she made no move to open it. She told herself it was to wait for Emma. Gabriel stood near her, too near for either of them to be comfortable. Grace wished at once that Emma and Jill did not need to go to the ladies at the same time. Even Jill's company was acceptable.

"So, how do you like the show?" Gabriel tried again with little uncertainty.

"Short, definitely. One song. I expected somemore. I don't think it was her best performance but--I felt something back there. She puts a lot of emotions into the songs."

"It's a sad song."

"With strange lyrics."

Silence. Again.

"Your friend, Emma. Interesting company. She's PhD?"

"She's the Roger S. Berlind Distinguished Professor of Humanities at Princeton University."

Gabriel winced, a smart blow to the ego that was almost physical. A loud reminder he was several notches short of Grace Nakamura. "What's that?"

"Honorary title of Professor for outstanding achievement in the humanities. Her PhD's from the Sorbonne."

"High-browed. Like you."

"No," a far away look in her eyes. "She's everything I wanted to be." Her hands moved up and down the length of her arms, rubbing warmth into goose-pimpled skin. There was an infinite depth of melancholy within the shadows of her downcast eyes.

Gabriel reached out and touched her, unwonted sensitivity in this seemingly common tactile contact. Grace raised her eyes, a hesitant-- nearly hopeful gaze watchful through her dark straight fringe. His heart quickened and the touch was withdrawn--along with the death of all expectations.

Grace tore her face away from him, arms tighter around a gaping heart. The shadow and feminist pride concealed her but Gabriel understood, empathized even the hurt that would be marked on that well-scrubbed China doll face.

Something crumpled inside him. Gabriel had never known how much he had appropriated Grace's spiritual and emotional strength. It terrified him that he would lose this bulwark before he found his way.

"Grace," Gabriel tried to speak to her, but footsteps behind them destroyed the moment, maybe forever. Maybe for only a while. He did not know. He only understood that they were both going to hate this for sometime.

"Ready to go?" Kobayashi asked without the usual jaunty attitude she carried around. Grace unlocked the car-door on the driver's side. The locks on the passenger's doors sprung open automatically.

"Goodnight, Gabriel," Kobayashi waved as she climbed into the car.

* * * * *

Kobayashi had known since she was a child that she had an unhealthy habit of watching people. As though everyone and everything were specimens passing through a microscope for her. She was polite and unobtrusive enough not to stare of course, being well-brought up. Yet it was not her observations that were so disturbing, but rather the details concerning their habits and personalities that she manages to pick up simply by watching them for a few minutes or so. Perhaps that was why she had written so many biographical studies of long dead people. It was her uncanny ability to see the macro in the micro. Like a modern day Sherlock Holmes with her own brand of literary deductions.

But having the advantage of knowing Grace Nakamura since the latter was four, Kobayashi needed little time to come to the conclusion that she was not happy. The granite hardness on her face also helped.

"So, did I interrupt anything back there?"

"No, nothing much," Grace said unconvincingly.

"He's a writer, isn't he?" Emma said to fill the empty space in the air. Grace nodded.

"You're angry at me."

"No," Grace replied, vexed. "What's your research about?" she said to change the subject.

"I'm planning a biography of Creole Emily Dickinson. Along with a collection of her poems of course."

"Pardon? A Creole Emily Dickinson?"

"It's something I found in the university library when I was visiting the University of Montreal," Emma elaborated.

"Apparently around the 19th Century some of the French-speaking poets living in Louisiana began circulating their privately published works among the Creole and French upper-crust. It was in part a reaction against the influx of English-speaking Americans coming into the South with their northern ways and vulgar money. The French and Creole elite wished to assert their cultural and artistic superiority. Among these French snobs I found an exceptionally gifted woman poet by the pseudonym of Le Rouge Coquelicot d'Nouvelle Orleans."

"The Red Poppy of New Orleans. How quaint."

"Do not mock. She is melodramatic, perhaps, but her poetry is sheer artistry. Absolute silken verse with velvet texture. I am determined to exhume this buried poet."

"Disturbing the dead. How morbid," Grace remarked. "Somehow I missed the sense of accomplishment one gets from research. I used to enjoy the amount of time I spend in the library and the archives for my theses," Grace revealed unawaringly. Emma leaned her cheek into a curled hand, and watched Grace.

Out of the blue, "Why didn't you continue with your PhD, Grace?"

"My goodness! Have you been talking to my mother?"

Emma smiled slightly. "I have spoken to many people. Your father and even Professor Barclay--all of whom are unhappy with your decision, especially when none of them could see the reason for it. But yes, your mother is the main motivator of my concerns."

"You're not telling me you're in New Orleans for my sake?"

Emma expressed disappointment with a few facial twitches. "Think about how egocentric that sounds, Grace Nakamura. I'm here extending professional courtesy and for research. The fact that you're here happens to be incidental."

"Sorry--it's just that you've touched a sore soft here. It's like talking to Mother all over again."

"Grace, by the way: what is it between you and Gabriel?"

"Em, now you are really talking like my mother. Please stop."

Kobayashi laughed candidly. "Actually, I quite like your mother. I've always found her a formidable woman of infinite patience."

Grace chortled. "Patience is a sporadic concept with my mother."

"Well, she was the only piano teacher I had with any patience with me. Grace, your attempt at digressing is feeble and it insults me. Stop that."

"Then can we talk about something else besides my education and Gabriel."

"So, they are separate issues then?" Kobayashi probed. Grace ignored her as she turned at a curb.

"Very well--let's talk about--Jill Callahan. I like her." Grace was still silent. Kobayashi sighed.

"What do you have against Jill?" she asked.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about it?"

"About your education and Gabriel, yes, we're not going to talk about them. So, does your resentment of Jill Callahan have anything to do with her being with Gabriel tonight?"

"Look, Em: I just don't like her. Okay?"

"If you say so. But do you doubt that Gabriel has something to do with it?"

"Em--shut up," Grace snapped. Then guiltily, she said more gently, "You don't understand." Emma snorted.

"Yeah, right. Twenty-three years having known you, and I wouldn't understand. I thought we were close, Grace."

"We are--goodness, Em, you're like a sister to me."

"Then why wouldn't I understand?"

"Because it's not rational, all right?" Grace finally admitted, and was ashamed.

"Because she's dating Gabriel?"

"I don't think they're dating. It's just that--Gabriel replaced me with her, all right. And the only qualifications she has for the job are looks and that wild mop of redhair!"

"How do you know that?" Emma asked. "Gabriel said that?"

"No--"

"So you're just jealous for no good reason at a very nice girl because some guy fired you to hire her? You're jealous, aren't you? You like Gabriel, and you're jealous."

"Em!" Grace was dumfounded.

"Do you know what, Grace?"

"What?"

"You need to be a bigger person."

Grace almost lost control of the car for a second. "What do you mean by that?" she managed, injured.

Kobayashi had already turned to stare out the window.

"Exactly what I've said, Grace," she finally replied.

They did not have very much to say to each other after this.

* * * * *