The Torments of Tantalus
„To me, who with eternal famine pine/ Alike is Hell, or Paradise, or Heaven."
Paradise Lost
The restaurant of Le Meurice would have been sufficient to stun a more sophisticated girl than I was - though I had spent my young girlhood in a respectable bourgeois household, I had never been what you would call spoilt for luxury. Therefore, my jaw must have dropped unattractively as I crossed the threshold into the large, quadrangular room with the marble painted floor and ceiling, brightly lit by several crystal chandeliers.
High mirrors mimicked windows with their ornamental partitions, but instead of showing views of the street or adjoining rooms, they just reflected the stiff-backed, cream colored chairs that had been arranged around the small, round tables, and the people who sat in them, eating and conversing in mannerly low tones. In a bit of a stupor, I registered a waiter drawing close, who, after Holmes had directed word at him, lead us to a vacant table beside the marble fireplace. I allowed him to put a chair out for me, and, sitting down, was glad for the less presentable portion of my wardrobe to become invisible beneath the table.
My companion, of course, knew none of the scrupled that vexed me. Maybe it was the assurance given to him by the mere fact of being a man, a state that necessitated less attention to outward appearance and modesty than womanhood. Or possibly, I mused, it was the life that lay behind him - a cornucopia of experience which instilled nonchalance and a disregard for superficialities into a man who might well rely on his authority and his standing in the world. On the other hand, it was also plausible that his singular personality, notoriously averse to all social strictures, ignored or even secretly enjoyed an obvious breach of the etiquette.
I scrutinized him sharply as he perused the wine list, apparently oblivious to the occasional discreet glances that strayed toward us. Maybe he really was distracted for the moment by his appetite. Then again, with a name like his, I remembered, he was probably used to curiosity. My fingers nervously drummed the table top.
„What is it, Frances?" He lowered the menu and narrowed his eyes at me. „Is the choice of wines not to your liking?"
I gave him a wry look. „Ye knows very well I didn't look at it yet. Don't ye realize everybody is secretly staring at us? I told ye they would."
He put down the menu and folded his fingers with a sigh so patient it sounded outright impatient. „This is your next lesson, Frances. Act the part. You did well earlier at the Buddhist temple. However, even if exterior circumstances are at odds with the person you wish to embody, you must persevere and make yourself credible. Do you understand?"
„But I ain't impersonating anyone at present, Mr. `olmes!" I replied with an embarrassed laugh. „I am ´ere just as meself…Frances Morris, a seamstress."
„And do people know that?" He arched an eyebrow, including the entire room with a small jerk of the head. „Is there any reason you should not be a duchess or a contessa, for all they know about you? Why should you not be an eminent person incognito or harried by unfortunate circumstances? Maybe you just had a narrow escape from cold-blooded abductors, or were released from a hiding-place. In my experience, there are many thinkable scenarios that would cover the situation."
I lowered my eyes. „I could ´ardly pass for a duchess, Mr. ´ olmes."
„Well, I didn't tell you to claim being somebody." He extracted a cigarette from his case and lit it with care. „I told you to seem being somebody. The difference, in its effect on the surroundings, is marginal. Garcon, veuillez apporter le Château de Cheval Blanc, s'il vous plaît."
He leaned back as far as the stiff-backed chair would allow, and puffed on his cigarette, his eyes still on me. Unvoluntarily, I sat straighter, lifting my chin, allowing my arms, which had been cramped to my sides, more space as they eased down on the armrest. He smiled, forbearing any comment on the change.
„And have you had time", he enquired when the waiter returned and the wine was poured out for us, „to have a look at the books your Uncle John told me to bring you?"
„Not yet, I'm afeared", I returned, slightly dazzled by the first taste of the beverage. I had never tried anything so delicious in my life!
„But you do read a lot, don't you?" He asked with a quick-shot glance from beneath his arched brow. „I think I saw a book on your bed-side table already."
I strove mightily against a flush that threatened to spread on my face. Hopefully, he would attribute it to the wine I had drunk on an empty stomach. „That…yes, Madame gave it to me", I muttered, trying to stick to the truth at least in part. „Like so many other things."
„A religious topic, I believe", he continued lightly, and I was glad his gaze was wandering though the room, rather than focussing me. „You said her family was christian?"
„That's right. E´ en so, Madame did not think of religions as mutually exclusive…many Buddhists don't. She went to church alright, though not as frequently as to the temple", I explained.
„I see. And this saint…..?"
„Lazare. Somehow related to health matters, I trust. Madame is allus concerned about health", I spluttered. „Not on´y ´er own…also other peoples`. She is a bit of a mother hen, ´specially as regards me. There will be advice all the time, whether you want it or not."
„Interesting." He exhaled, and remained silent until after we had made our order.
„So, what d'ye ´ope ten glean from tomorrow's call at the shop?" I cautiously enquired, when his taciturnity became too much for me. „D'ye fink we will learn something?"
He did not reply though, and pensively rolled his half-smoked cigarette between index and middle finger. „I wonder whether you ought not to tell the police about this book", he suddenly said.
My heart began to race, all of a sudden. No way. Not if I could help it! „Why?" I said hurriedly, and after realizing this may have sounded a little off, I asked: „Do you fink it important at all?"
His eyes were riveted on mine. „Don't you?" He slowly said.
I shook my head. „No, certainly not. ´ow could it be? It's jus' an old doorstopper. No interest in it."
„Still, she gave it to you…shortly before she disappeared."
I shook my head more emphatically. „No, no. that don't signify anyfink. I told ye she was fond o' giving gifts. Possibly she even wanted her get rid o' the dust trap."
Damn the wine! It had risen into my head already. Had I been sober, I would have put on a neater show. As it was, I could only hope he had not noticed my distress.
Starters arrived - scallops for him, duck liver for me - and I was glad for the diversion to take his mind off the topic. To steer even further away, I asked when he would be home in Sussex the next time.
At the mention of Sussex, he creased his brow. „Why do you ask?"
„It's jus'….I was very touched by Mildred's gift and I thought I would make her somefink - a little somefink, a hat maybe or a pair o' gloves. Would ye be so kind an' take it back for me?"
He replied in the positive, though his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Never before had I had a dinner companion that paid so little attention to me; though amazingly he always managed to balance on the edge of impoliteness. I was not angry at him, just puzzled. Anyhow, an absent mind could scarcely aim suspicion at me, and I was content. Starters were followed by mains….sweetbread, langoustines and guinea fowl. I enjoyed everything, but the ravenous hunger Holmes had professed seemed to have deserted him. He just picked at the things, but never arose from his state of distractedness again till dessert. It was just possible he had forgotten everything around himself, as Uncle John had reported occasionally happened to him. He had forgotten I was there, surely.
Had it been like this with Aunt Cathy? Had he blanked her out, treated her as though she were air? Or had she been different, a being apart from others in his eyes? Oh, I could make no sense of the human heart. Relations between men and women were apt to mystify me and leave me bewildered. I knew only extremes - the violent strife between my natural parents, the drink, the thrashing, the miserable lies to neighbors and policemen. And on the other hand the kind, loving, respectful relationship of Uncle John and Aunt Mary, dissolved by illness and ultimately, death.
Somewhere in between, so I remembered from my childhood days, my Aunt Cathy's marriage had been. There had been bliss and love without question, but also spite, separation and yes, violence. I had never forgotten the day Holmes had come to our home to threaten Aunt Cathy in case she should go to Ireland with us. And yet, compared with what I had known at the time, their love had seemed perfection, a firm foundation to build a family on.
Goddamn, I had been happy! I had felt we were a family, Mr. Holmes, Aunt Cathy, Mrs. Hudson, little Sheridan and I. I had never been so happy again. Even Aunt Mary and Uncle John had not been able to instill this feeling of belonging in me, though hard they tried. And even after Aunt Cathy's death, we could have been…..we COULD have been!
I tried to bite back my tears as I thought that this whole wretched past with all its desperations, hopes and disappointments probably was the reason why I was not able to relax into a relationship with a man - why I had stopped trying, giving preference to unsociable seclusion. I just was not fit.
oooOOOooo
She came back to the quaint awareness that she had now, irrevocably, lost track of time. There was no method to establish how many hours, days or weeks had passed since the world had faded out, to the present moment and the man who held a receptacle of some sort to her lips.
Ling Zhao drank greedily; the instinct of the body had re-asserted itself and demanded that she take every measure to bring it back to its former strength. A vivid impression of salty flavors made itself felt next, she seemed to be sucking on a peace of salted bacon - she, who for thirty years had renounced red meats! But in her current state, it was like the allure of blood's scent to a wild beast, and she felt like she had never found a sensation more satisfactory than the taste of the salt.
All too soon, however, the godsend was withdrawn from her again. She protested with raw, primal sound that to her own, cultured ear sounded horribly alien. Although the thought of food eclipsed everything else, a spark of gratefulness for the absence of a mirror flashed through her mind. He had made her an animal! A crawling creature driven by impulse! And there it still lingered, though faint and hardly perceivable, the scent of salt, meat, food!
Ling Zhao could not take it anymore. She fell forward, onto her stomach, her face on the cold, naked stone. With wild sobs, she threw her arms around the calves of the patent leather man, begging him to give her nourishment before she flew into a spitting frenzy, and was pulled back by strong, merciless arms.
oooOOOooo
His mornings were not getting any better.
He could not even attribute it to debauchery - the Château Cheval Blanc had made for a cleaner drink than spring water, and was just as unlikely to provoke headache. Nor could he blame late hours. Frances, a diligent worker with a tight schedule, had insisted on retuning home early. And yet, he felt more exhausted than in the wake of other nights less moderately spent.
The truth was, he had tossed his head from left to right for the greater part of the past hours, frightful visions coursing his addled brain. It was something the girl had brought up, most probably unawares, that filled him with a vague, but persistent horror. It had been the early morning hours which had brought a more defined apprehension, a terrible suspicion.
When the hands of the bedside clock showed it was six o' clock and he could be sure the staff were awake, he got out of bed and covered two strips of paper with writing at the small lacquered escritoire. Pulling over a dressing gown, he rung the bell for the page, who appeared within the minute.
„Cable this text to my home address in England, please. And this, give to a runner to bring to M. Simon of the Metropolitan Police."
He gave the boy a tip and a quick nod, closed the door and flung himself down on his bed again, with a sense of being worn out by superhuman efforts. His present concern was hideously interspersed with thoughts of Frances, a girl he told himself again and again he knew barely anything about.
If only she did not look so much like Kitty! Her resemblance was a psychological trap, and he knew he was in danger of being caught in it. Familiar and comforting though her company felt, she remained a stranger and a conundrum. Still, how much easier could things have been if it were not for their earlier acquaintance! He had tried hard, by his standards, to take the edge off her resentment. He had forgiven her insults, had gone out of his way to be kind, had even taken her on to the chase. What else could he do to make the girl trust him?
She held on fast to her secret knowledge. His strategy of loosening her tongue with wine had availed but little. Also, she had shirked from the idea of having the police down at the Buddhist temple. During dinner, he had confronted her again with a suggestion to involve the police, and again, her reaction had been that of a deer caught in headlights. It was suggestive, if it was nothing else.
He swung his legs over the side of his bed, sitting up again and locking his hands behind his aching head. Curse the girl! If she stalled him much longer, he would have to shake the secret out of her mendacious little person!
Hi ppl!
If Holmes and Fanny want to stand a chance rescuing Mme Zhao, they had better hurry up and be a team before it is too late….
All the Best, Mrs. F.