Moment of truth

„That sacred fruit, sacred to abstinence,

Much more to taste it under ban to touch.

But past who can recall, or done undo?"

Paradise Lost

Leaning back in my chair, I added a few strokes to my thumbnail sketch and let the pencil sink with resignation. From where I was seated in the low, tubular hall, it was impossible to catch a glimpse of the Contessa di Moncada. Having arrived in advance, an unfortunate pick of position had lodged me at a table close enough to hers to hear her warm, guttural laugh, but still out of sight.

She was a young, slight brunette. I had had an opportunity to look at her when she and her entourage had passed my table; unaware of course that it was she I had come to see, much rather than the famous shadow play. Of course, how could she know I saw through her incognito? The representative of one of the numerous cheesy society newspapers in this city would no doubt have molested her with questions…but Madame would not thank me for discrediting her genteel establishment in this manner.

The girl did not look so much like a countess than just a happy bride on her honeymoon. But her sense of fashion, I would have perceived even without knowing beforehand, was excellent. She wore a white V-necked evening gown with scarlet floral embroidery on the bodice and lower half of her skirt and a sumptuous scarlet overcoat, gathered into a train by an application of velvet roses on one side. Her white-gloved hands held a large ivory fan, and the dark hair was tied in a funny top knot, and dressed with a scarlet headgear.

It was a complex ensemble to take in at a single glance, and I despaired of getting the embroidery right in my sketch. So instead of wearying myself with the pencil, I craned my neck in an attempt to get yet another impression of the design. But the most I could get was a look at the Contessa's genially smiling face among those of her companions, and the way she dotingly listened to her new husband talking.

Wholly indifferent to their romance, I tried one more time. The show was about to begin, and very soon, they would dim the light to a point where I had no chance at all of seeing anything at all. Maybe if I raised myself a little from my seat, so as if to re-arrange my skirts, I would be able to see her better. Fussing over my attire, I rose half-way, turning my head the way of the merry party in a by-the-way fashion.

Like myself, the Contessa was a woman of little hight, and she virtually disappeared amongst the men that surrounded her. It was wretchedly bad luck. I was on the verge of letting myself sink back onto my seat, when something else caught my attention. It was a hand, a pale, long-fingered hand, sticking out from the gallimaufry behind the Contessa's table. The hand held a cigarette in a manner that was so familiarly affected, so obviously striking an attitude it could only belong to one single person.

My eyes followed the hand down the arm toward the elbow, dressed in a black sleeve from which the hint of a white shirt cuff emerged. It rested lightly on the table, whilst its owner remained concealed behind the large form of the Contessa's spouse. I did not have to make certain of his identity, though. Sitting down with a brusque movement, I experienced a moment of anxious uncertainty. What in blazes was he doing here? The circumstances hardly allowed for a coincidence. Was it possible he had followed me?

I breathed quickly, the aspiration growing shallow and unwholesome. This was too much - too much. I had to leave. The process of dimming the light, which was set in motion this very instant, provided a welcome cover under which I might disappear unnoticed. Much agitated, my hands felt around for my pencil and sketch, then lifted my bag onto my knees to stuff everything in. A hurried scatter of coins on the table top completed the preliminaries of flight.

It was his voice, his voice behind my back that startled me; that made me stop. „Pray do not leave….not for my sake."

I closed my eyes. He had to be close; close to my ear. Surely he could hear my accelerated breath, if not my hectic pulse. I felt his gaze on the back of my head, on my nape. My resemblance to Kitty had to be perfect from behind.

Involuntarily, I raised my hands to lift the hair and to lay it across the right shoulder, exposing my neck on the left where hers had been scarred up to the ear. I sensed him hesitate, then pass me by. Opening my eyes again, it was so dark already I could only just discern he had taken a seat at my table. The small glow of his extinguishing cigarette told me his right hand rested on the table.

At the far, elevated end of the room, today's play was being announced and introduced with a spooky melody played on the piano forte. On the white screen, eerily illuminated from behind, strange forms began to throng. The impression was that of a caravan, moving against the backdrop of a nightly desert - men, dogs, horses, camels. The shape of the animals made me recall a certain day long ago….when I had been a child at the zoo, marveling at the creatures of the desert, plaguing Holmes with my endless questions about them, until he silenced me by buying me ice-cream.

The world had looked neatly defined and not nearly so complicated in those days. But the child of yore was a child no longer, and the woman it had become could no more be satisfied with ices and the sight of curious animals. I cast a quick glance at what I could see of him in the half light, and wondered whether he were thinking the same thing, or what else he might be thinking about.

But he was unfathomable as ever, and sat silent through the entire hour that the players entertained. It was only when the lights were turned up again, and applause was showered on the performers, that he turned to look at me. His face was extremely cool and collected, haughty almost. It vexed me.

Leaning in towards him, supporting my torso's weight on my forearms, I hissed: „Why in God's name are you `ere? Don't tell me ye came fer the shadow play."

His facial muscles flexed, though not sufficiently to be confused with a smile. „Of course not. Superintendent Dulage informed me I would be likely to find you here."

His words instantly infuriated me against the poor Superintendent. The blackguard! What business had he to relate my whereabouts to Holmes; information he had come by only by the merest coincidence? It was not to be borne!

Meanwhile, Holmes talked on swiftly, as if he wanted to get everything off his chest as quickly as possible. „Frances, I must talk to you. Not here, though. I wish for a private conversation, if you will grant me one. I shall call for a cab to bring me back to my hotel. Will you come with me?"

In my confusion, I had sipped on the glass of wine I had orderer earlier, but choked on it at his words. „Bite yer tongue, Mr. `olmes!"

He started, taken by surprise with my asperity, and cast down his eyes. „Your own place, if you prefer it. It doesn't matter to me."

„That would be worse!" I exclaimed, mortified by the awkwardness of the situation. We were silent for a minute, ere he said:

„Neutral ground, then. We can walk, or go by cab. I don't care Frances, I just need to talk to you. If we drive in circles in a brougham, then that is fine by me. Only let us get away from this jostle."

He looked at me, and I discerned the urgency of his words mirrored in the earnest insistence of his gaze. Yes, he was dead serious, he was not trifling with me.

With some hesitation, I agreed.

oooOOOooo

When I had accepted his proposal to go by foot, I had not thought it was Madame Zhao's flat he would lead me to. It made perfect sense, though - the Montmartre quarter was only ten minutes from the Boulevard de Clichy where Le Chat Noir was located, and of course, he still had the key. Yet I wondered at the queerness of the idea when, ignoring the police seal that prohibited entrance, he unlocked the door and calmly asked me to step in.

Last time we had been here in broad daylight, and the damage that had been done by the intruders had been the prevalent feature. But by night, the place looked oddly forlorn, as though it were feeling void; mourning for its occupant. The subdued light softened the blatant havoc, and the overall impression was one of sadness, not violence.

I went into the kitchen to prepare some tea. While the water was boiling in the kettle, I swept up the spices that had been spilt across the tiles, and the scattered shards of broken glass. Holmes watched me mutely. Of course we both knew I was not allowed to alter anything in the apartment - but something prompted me to remedy at least this deed of destruction; to restore at least this little nook of the place to order.

I emptied the dustpan into the bin and picked one of Madame's china tea pots to put tea leaves in. The oh-so-healthy green tea I prudently ignored, going for the Hongcha. The abandoned little bamboo shovel seemed to dig into the glass almost lovingly, scooping a small quantity of tea and releasing it into the pot just in time, for the kettle started wheezing. I poured the boiling water over the closely furled leaves and waited for them to gradually unfurl while I searched for two cups and saucers to match the pot.

Holmes had taken a seat at the wooden kitchen table. I felt his eyes in my back, but it was preferable to having to look at him or talk to him. I had a certain dread of what was to come, especially since I could not in all fairness blame everything on him. It would be cheap to say he had got me drunk; it would be criminal to insinuate he had offered me violence. Yes, the haematoma on my body bore witness to the fact he had not exactly treated me gingerly, but that was hardly the same thing. I had come to his bed basically of my own will, thus I was not his victim, but at worst, his plaything.

Having prepared tea for him before, I knew how he liked to drink it, and the procedure had a soothing effect on me, inasmuch as following a routine will always be more reassuring than doing something for the first time. Therefore, my hand was steady when I set the crockery on the table between us.

„Thank you…Frances", he said, his deep voice flowing around the vowels and consonants of my name as an attractive undercurrent. There was the warm twinkle in his eyes again, and I realized just in time he was exercising his suggestive arts on me once more. I hardened myself against the friendly allure of his advances.

„Ye're welcome", I said with a coldness that contrasted sharply with his charm offensive, and sat down stiffly. „So, ye wanted ter talk to me?"

This time, he was prepared for a chilly counter, and did not cast down his eyes. Rather than that, he leaned back in his chair, left calf flung across right shin, and smiled arrogantly. „My dear, you would make me too much of a compliment if you were to think evenings like the preceding one are a routine with me. Of course it needs processing."

I am afraid I blushed, though only partially from pudency. He managed to maintain his superior facade in just every situation. Why? My actions certainly were not worthier of reprehension than his. And yet, he was trying somehow to put himself in the right, and me in the wrong, even if it were just on a perceptual level. Wait, I would get the better of him!

I bristled with anger. „Mr.`olmes, whatever it is you need to process, you won`t process it wiv me. I haven't the faintest idea what I may `ave been thinking last night. Presumably, nothing. Serves me right for getting meself into an awful situation! Or do you think it was pleasant for me, being seen go in at night and go out in the morning by this smug, fulsome git of a concierge?"

That hit home. He seemed a little guilty when he admitted: „Naturally….I am aware I did not necessarily distinguish myself through gallantry. Perhaps you can see a way to forgive…taking into account that I am not accustomed…."

I bit into my lower lip, turning my face away. Of course he was not accustomed to being chivalrous. His wife had allowed him to treat her like that, and worse. It was one of the reasons why I had decided at an early age never to become like any of my female relatives. My father had drunken himself mindless on a regular basis and frightened the living daylights out of my mother, who in turn had wreaked her exasperation on us, the children.

And my aunt had been little better. At bottom, what had she been but a whore, doing small time with changing men and making a living of her beautiful face, her voluptuous body. I had not been able to see this as a child, worshipping her with a fervor that stemmed from her fundamental dissimilarity to my mother; and that excluded the possibility of critical judgement. Today I knew she had been soft, never thinking for herself, never working hard. What had I to do with her.

Tears pricked at my eyes, and I quickly rose from the table, turning my back toward him. He gave me time, never saying a word until I had composed myself. Then, he stood next to me and put his arm around my waist, a safe, strong barrier against my afflictions. I felt the light pressure of his lips against the crown of my head. It was the protective deportment of a father toward his daughter, it was what I, a successful adult woman, did not stand in the least need of.

Only, it felt so good.

OUF! Fanny and Sherlock need to sort out their feelings asap. I think its the greatest emotional mess I ever created between two characters. And as if that were not enough, the dead woman casts her larger-than-life shadow over the heroine…

….I don't know what's going to happen. So I say good-bye for now. See you!

Love, Mrs. F