Chapter 33: Going East to go West
"It's been a while since I've traveled," Remus said as he put his bag onto the bed and took a seat watching Calamity fold her final pieces. "Even longer since I've traveled...like this."
"You mean like we did in the Order," Calamity teased. "Making sure we were being followed until we could do the business we set out to."
"I take it Aberforth cleared any bugs away," Remus said with a smirk. "It's a bit thrilling isn't it. Always was, of course."
"Are you nostalgic, Remus," Calamity teased.
"For a time when I fought along side my best friends? Never."
He looked suddenly overcome with sadness, but pushed it away as he pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket and began to munch on it. Calamity gave him a moment of silence to think as she attempted to shove her final books into the bag. Even with a modified bottom and the books shrunk they were causing her some issues.
"I've been meaning to say something, Calamity," Remus said chewing thoughtfully. "I want to apologize. You were right- this whole time you knew and you told me and Dumbledore and no one listened. No one even gave the idea a chance! I mean, Dumbledore even spoke at Sirius' hearing."
"It wasn't a hearing, Remus," Calamity said. She latched the bag. "It was a meeting to finalize sending him to Azkaban permanently without trial."
"I know," Remus said. "And you tried to tell us that Sirius Black wouldn't betray Lily and James and we didn't listen."
"What did Sirius say when you said all this," Calamity asked. Remus smiled weakly back.
"He said sorry for thinking I was a traitor. I reckon you told him that was wrong as well."
"I did."
"You should have been in Ravenclaw."
They sat in a heavy silence until the bag made a final snapping sound.
"Ah-ha!" Calamity said triumphantly. "Let's floo!"
"Right," Remus said hopping up. His eyes danced with excitement and it made his face look young once more. Calamity felt her own thrill of excitement. It was very much like the thrill she felt when she was younger rushing through St. Mungos while hearing the calls for medicine stat. The thrill was greater now because there was no life on the line.
Calamity went to the fireplace and grabbed some floo. "Paris," she told Remus firmly. "Third fireplace."
"Got it, wait!" He rushed to the door and opened it slightly, letting the noises from below drift up and their own noises drift out. "Thanks again, Aberforth," he called out.
Aberforth grunted in response, "Enjoy Paris."
Calamity smirked, but said nothing as she stepped into the fire and tossed down the powder calling "Paris!"
For a few weeks they cut through France, hopped to Morocco, then finally to China careful to keep their presence and travel obvious until they were sure the Ministry had lost interest. Remus noted that Sirius had planned to let himself be spotted again. With this sighting and their being out of country, the Ministry lost interest with them by the second day they were in China.
"Floo to our real destination," Remus asked as they leaned forward in a crowded market. The market was unique in that it was hidden within a muggle market. Calamity could see muggles passing by the window just behind Remus oblivious to the fact that the closed for business sign hid a whole new section of the shopping center for wizards. The closest shop to the entrance was a tea shop where they now sat, sipping tea.
"No," Calamity said. She pulled out two tickets from her bag. "We're going the muggle way."
"By airplane?"
"Harder to track. You never tried it?"
"I never did. I heard Lily did once or twice. Especially to throw off the deatheaters on longer missions." His eyes danced with excitement.
"You're on the run?"
They froze in their conspirator huddle. The waiter had returned as quietly as a gust of wind. Remus recovered first, smiling brightly and taking some more tea.
"No, just excited to see how the muggles do it," he said pleasantly.
"Try it now while you can."
"What do you mean," Calamity asked. "Is it going away?"
The waiter seemed hesitant, glancing behind himself quickly before looking back at them.
"Why don't you have a glass of tea," Remus offered.
"I can't."
"We insist," Remus said sternly pouring the waiter the tea and motioning to the seat. Reluctantly the waiter sat down.
"I was serving someone last week who was talking about the World Cup coming up. He and his friends were just stopping by before they went there- some Bulgarians, I think."
"And these Bulgarians said muggle airplanes were going out of fashion," Calamity asked taking a sip of tea.
"No, they mentioned that...well they said that the wizard England was fighting against all those years ago was still alive. They said there had been whispering about it all over Albania and Bulgaria. Said it was only a matter of time before the darkness returned to England stronger than before."
"Did he seem credible," asked Remus curiously, but the waiter jumped up seeing someone of authority approaching.
"I have to go, sorry."
They watched him rush away.
"Who do you think he was scared off by," Remus asked.
But Calamity was watching a boisterous man of six feet moving towards them through the crowd. Though his face still held the sternness of someone who's profession had once been hidden in secret, his body swayed as if he were truly enjoying retirement from it. He spotted her just as she recognized him.
"Clara Scott!" He called in a voice that boomed through the tea shop and even made a muggle beyond the barrier pause confused. Remus calmly sipped his tea as Calamity stood and shook the man's hand with a smile.
"Rafael it's been too long."
"It has," he said laughing in a tone as loud as his voice. "Imagine I find you half way across the world when we live just a few states apart in the US. What brings you here?"
"Just traveling. Rafael Ortiz, this is Remus Lupin an old friend."
Rafeal looked over Remus as an older brother might look over his sister's suitor. "Pleasure to meet you. Friend from her time in Hogwarts?"
"Known her since she was sixteen," Remus said with a smile. "Until this year I hadn't seen her for quite some time. And you?"
"Met Calamity through Jaden, God rest his soul. I'd known Jaden Scott since he was a kid and then he brings this young doctor to my party, had to be my 40th and I could just tell she was smart as a whip." he turned his attention back to Calamity. "How are you?"
"I'm great," Calamity said. She motioned to the seat next to them and Rafael sat. Remus poured him tea despite his half-hearted protests. "Maybe you can assist us, we've heard some rumors we want settled."
"Ah, Calamity," Rafael said with a laugh. "You know I'm retired."
"Rafael use to work with the American Ministry of Magic," Calamity explained to Remus. 'He pretends not to know anything, but he was very high up. Very secretive and impressive."
"She flatters," Rafael said clearly pleased. "What's the rumor."
"The World Cup?"
"That's no rumor," laughed Rafael. "Everyone knows about it. Here I thought you'd ask me about the UK ministry's plan to bring back the Triwizard Tournament."
"The Triwizard Tournament is back," Remus asked pouring more tea. Calamity waved over the waiter and added some beer to their order.
"Ambitious plan by Ludo Bagman and some Crouch fellow. Didn't know Bagman was in politics after his Quidditch days, but suppose he's fit enough for the department. Course, I don't know much about the planning since it's usually for the European schools only."
"Well then tell us a new rumor," Calamity insisted. "It seems our rumor was too dull."
"What good are rumors," chuckled Rafael. He patted Calamity's hand as the waiter brought and opened the beer for them.
"Rafael always plays hard to get," Calamity teased nudging him. The older man chuckled again.
"Rumors, rumors," he took a deep sip from his beer in thought. "I did stop by the British ministry. Some business about the Veil."
"The Veil," Remus repeated. For a moment Rafael looked hesitant to expand.
"What's the Veil," asked Calamity interested. Rafael visibly relaxed. He had no issue sharing secrets with his countrymen.
"Been in the ministry as long as I can remember, probably longer. It's a huge arch on a stone dais in a pit twenty feet deep. Dunno why they keep it or if it's been "It's been there before the ministry...maybe the ministry was built around it. The arch has a veil and it just seems to sway in some wind, just beautiful. I went because a friend of mine, an Unspeakable, mentioned it had been acting up. Apparently it had been quite loud."
"Loud," repeated Calamity confused.
"See, it's a passage to death."
"Pardon," Remus said.
"A passage to the world of the dead," Rafael said again as if explaining to a child the concept of two. "When a person dies they cross through. You can hear them whispering and murmuring if you get close enough, but best not to. They don't mean to lure you in, but the living are always lured in by the voices. Most of the time you can't hear them unless you're very close, but my friend said he came in and they were practically shouting. Couldn't make out a word but it was like hundreds were shouting at once. By the time I got there they had quieted down, but still... odd."
"What could make them get like that," Calamity asked curiously. Rafael shrugged.
"Certainly nothing that I've experienced. What could wake the dead?"
"Some kind of disturbance, maybe," suggested Calamity. She leaned in close and Remus and Rafael followed suit. "Some kind of resurfacing, perhaps. A rise to power?"
"For all those voices to be woken it'd be someone who killed or harmed a lot of people," Rafael said. "Hitler? I don't think he's coming back. More likely it's something we just don't understand yet."
"Right," Remus said taking a final sip of tea. "Probably nothing important." He gave Calamity a significant look.
"Tell us more about the World Cup," Calamity said with a smile.
"That we can gossip about," Rafael said with a laugh. "Ireland's got a great team..."
And he was off on a rant that couldn't be stopped for three more rounds of beer.
Calamity and Remus decided to stay one more night before their trip to Costa Rica. Calamity could hear Remus breathing deeply in the bed next to hers, but she couldn't sleep. She rolled over, considering if it was the talk of the Veil in the ministry or the rumors of Voldemort that made her uneasy. Either way, she needed a distraction. She opened her bag softly and pulled out Anna Karina. Things had not been going well for Anna in France, where she had wanted a divorce but been refused custody of her son. It had not been good in Morocco where Anna was thrown into a jealous rage when her lover spent time with his mother, who was determined to marry him to a princess. Calamity knew it was never going to be good for Anna and she wasn't sure she would be able to read the inevitable scene at the end, so she reached for Dorian Gray instead and opened it, sinking beneath her covers as if in a fort of her own solitude.
"Lumos," she whispered. the page lit before her.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place."
"I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. "No, I won't send it anywhere."
Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion."
"I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can't exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it."
Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.
"Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same."
"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him."
"You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks—we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly."
"Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.
"Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you."
"But why not?"
"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?"
"Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke's—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it—much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me."
"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose."
"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.
After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago."
"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
"You know quite well."
"I do not, Harry."
"Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason."
"I told you the real reason."
"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish."
"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul."
Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked.
"I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face.
"I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him.
"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter; "and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."
Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible."
Remus stirred and Calamity paused as if the dialogue she was reading was actually audible and might have disturbed her sleeping friend. For a momnent she sat perfectly still.
"Are you awake," Remus asked groggily.
"Just reading," Calamity said. "Is the light too bright?"
"Course not" Remus replied. There was a pause and Calamity thought maybe he had fallen back to sleep. Finally he spoke again: "Does Sirius know about Jaden?"
"What?"
"Does Sirius know that you were married for a bit?"
"Believe it or not, Remus, in the twenty minutes I saw him it didn't come up."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"How do you reckon I should phrase it? 'Hey Sirius, glad to see you. By the way, I got married while you were in Azkaban. He died, but just so you know.' Sound like a good conversation opener?"
"He's bound to find out," Remus said. There was the sound of him shifting in bed, then silence. Calamity felt bad for her tone. She had sounded moe harsh than she intended.r
"Remus," She asked timidly.
"Hmm" he replied, clearly falling asleep again.
"I'll tell him."
"I know, but wait until morning."
Calamity smiled. "Alright." She turned back to her book, turning the page.
"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."
A/N: Don't forget to review!
