No one would notice my presence, I knew. The cameras certainly would not catch it and the staff, as vigilant as they were, could not always see what was right before them. It was a strange sort of advantage we had, very useful at times, although I always felt a pang of guilt after sneaking about so easily. Over the past two decades, I had done the best I could to ensure that my life—if it could be called as such—was led as normally as possible, according to the present conventions. I utilized my unique situation only in the direst of circumstances, and even then, I did my best to squash it into repression, to forget the impossible. I was, as far as those surrounding me were concerned, as commonplace as anyone. We were trapped. What else could be done but adapt?
Naturally, he had not chosen to do so.
As I slipped through the door so rigidly poised behind impossibly thick glass, I found it hard, but not impossible, to believe he had sunken lower still. His mind was seized by madness upon his death, and so it only made sense that he had arrived shriveled beneath it. Still, the truth was little consolation. His was damnation in the truest sense, and although he was well aware that he could have easily combated it, he chose instead to languish within its strangling hold.
The walls were that same starched, sterile white that pervaded this wing, indifferent, numb, and morbidly appropriate. The fluorescent lighting that lined the ceiling was either turned off or had burned out, leaving a cold darkness in its wake. His room was completely bare of furnishings save for the hospital bed that was pushed against the far wall, its metal railings dull in the dim lighting.
"Ah. You."
The white, skeletal hand that hung limply over the side of the bed twitched in unison with its owner's faint voice. He did not turn to look at me.
I ran a hand over my coarsely bearded jaw, temple throbbing.
"Still?" I asked, past incredulity. Now, it was merely a formality.
"Biding time," he answered, his voice as ragged as his wasted body. That was the customary reply. I wondered if he was even aware of what he was saying.
My gaze absentmindedly flicked up to the unused overhead lighting.
"They keep it off," he explained, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Have kept it off."
"For how long?"
He exhaled with agonizing slowness, the rise and fall of his ribcage barely noticeable beneath the thick blankets.
"You tell me."
There was a pregnant pause. The only sound in the room was that of his labored breathing.
Finally, I heaved a sigh and said, "You have chosen this."
"Naturally."
"There will be no sign."
"You are wrong."
"There has been nothing. Do you realize that? Nothing."
"Naturally."
I fought the urge to groan. Why I bothered with conversation at this point, I did not know.
"Why continue this? Why live—"
"I do not live."
"Then why die a thousand times over?" I cried.
Another pause, and perhaps I imagined it, but this one seemed to possess a touch of electricity. His head lolled to the side and he blinked slowly, his eyes deadened from deep within their sunken sockets.
"So I may live."
"You cannot—"
"It is raining," he breathed.
The storm outside drummed its persistent, feral rhythm against the aged walls, building in volume and ferocity until it was raging a war against itself. The thunder roared and the wind tore at its throat, and the specter in the bed turned his now gleaming gaze to the ceiling and waited.
Whenever it rained, a spot in the back right corner of the ceiling leaked. Antoinette had called repairman after repairman in an attempt to sort it out, but ultimately, we wound up scurrying for a bucket and old towels whenever the weather forecast called for a thunderstorm. The rest of the dark paneled wood was still in good condition, particularly since it had recently been refinished. But that spot remained stubbornly resistant to renovation.
Luckily, it was in an area of the shop that went largely unnoticed to the majority of customers (over the pitifully stocked financial section and the door that led to the archives), and there had only been one occasion where an innocent browser was drenched by a sudden onslaught of rainwater.
Reason number one why we kept the financial section so pitifully stocked.
Still, ruined books were synonymous with money down the drain, as Antoinette put it, and in order to prevent the loss of any other masterpieces (God forbid if The History of Belgian Coin Debasement was ruined), I was put in charge of the Unofficial Ceiling Patrol.
And wouldn't you know it, solemn ceiling duty called at the same moment the telephone rang. I was, as was often the case, the only one in the shop. Antoinette had several other businesses on the side, and they tended to take precedence over an antique bookshop, particularly when she had such a "dedicated worker" at her disposal.
"You know you can always call me if there's a problem, Christine," she'd said.
I couldn't. Not at the same time the ceiling was caving in, at least. The telephone wasn't cordless. Antoinette had loved the look of the vintage phone, and had decided to keep it because it "added character."
Unfortunately, it also increased the likelihood that I would be unable to save The History of Belgian Coin Debasement from a watery demise. My eyes darted frantically from the groaning, dripping ceiling to the insistently ringing phone. One option meant ruined, one-of-a-kind books: the other, a lost sale or a missed delivery appointment.
My hand leapt forward and seized the receiver, eyes still fixed nervously on the warped wood in the back.
"La Plume D'Oie, Rue Auber, how may I help you?" I recited hurriedly. Indeed, I'd spoken so fast that the sentence sounded like one long irritated curse.
The man on the other line cleared his throat and began a cautious-sounding dialogue.
"Yes, I've, uh—I'm calling for an Antoinette Giry. She left me this number and instructed me to call you regarding a shipment of old librettos. I believe your shop deals with that sort of thing?"
My heart sank. I could not hang up and return the man's call. We'd been waiting for it for quite some time. Antoinette had been gushing about the librettos ever since she'd met their owner and expected me to do everything I could to ensure that they arrived here safe and sound. She'd even ordered a display so they could be showcased in the front of the shop.
The cord on the phone seemed like an iron chain. I twirled it nervously, inching towards the dirtied towels that sat on a shelf under the counter. In the back of the store, the ceiling wept.
"Um, yes," I mumbled distractedly, "We do. She told me about your librettos."
"Excellent!" he said, all wariness in his tone gone, "See, I got them at an estate sale, didn't really think much of it. I'm not from here—I live in the U.S., Wisconsin, actually—but I was on holiday in Marseilles about three—no, I think it was four…yeah, four years ago, and I saw an ad in the paper for the sale, so I thought, hey, what have I got to lose, right? I mean, it's not like I'm in Europe every day."
I gnawed on my thumbnail anxiously, his words barely registering. If I could just lengthen the phone's electrical wire, then perhaps I could make it to the back and clean up the water before the roof gave in…
"…flew over with my wife. Ah—ex-wife, I should say. Actually, that's the only reason I bought them. She was a big opera fan, belted it damn near every second of the day, so when I saw the librettos, I just pounced, you know? They weren't too pricey, either, considering."
The cord would unravel further, I saw with relief. Sandwiching the receiver between my shoulder and my head, I bent down awkwardly and began unraveling the knotted wire with trembling, sweaty fingers.
"Anyway, I guess Judy—my ex-wife—I guess Judy liked France a little too much, if you know what I mean. Had an affair with a fisherman. His name was Gilles. Probably twenty-four, twenty- five. Strapping. Had a cleft chin. She left me for a guy with a cleft chin. I mean really, who does that? With someone named Gilles?"
If I had had any semblance of a backbone, I would have ordered him to cut to the chase so the deal could be finalized. As it was, I did not dare to upset him. The sale's value was too hefty a sum to jeopardize.
The thin wire slipped repeatedly from my grasp, but eventually, I managed to unravel it completely. My head still leaning against the receiver, I grabbed the phone with my right hand, the towels with my left, and slowly scooted towards the opposite wall.
"Anyway, after the assets were divided, she left these with me. I don't think she meant to. I'm not an opera fan. It's kind of too much for me, you know? Loud. My name's Phil, by the way. Phil Hertz."
"Well, we truly appreciate your call, M. Hertz," I said, my lower lip bleeding as my teeth tore into it nervously. There was a steady, narrow stream of water flowing from the ceiling now, forming a small puddle on the top of the bookcase beneath it.
"Yeah, well, I just need to get rid of these things. Don't get me wrong, I think they're pretty neat, but I figured the public would get more enjoyment out of them than I would."
"That is very generous of you." Please don't cave in, please don't cave in, please, please, please. "I'm sorry Antoinette couldn't answer your call. She's been very busy lately."
"Hey, that's alright. She seemed like a nice lady: real excited about these. I met her during a tour of the Palais Garnier. Said she used to be a tour guide after she worked backstage for a few years, and was just stopping by for old time's sake. We got to talking…"
I cursed silently when the cord tugged. It was pulled taut, threatening to pop out from the outlet, and I was still a fair distance away from the bookshelf. M. Hertz rambled on, apparently oblivious to the fact that the employee on the other line was not responding. I huffed out a forceful breath of air, perspiration gathering on the nape of my neck. He would likely continue speaking for several more seconds. He hadn't noticed the silence yet...
I placed the receiver on the scuffed floor, gathered up the towels, and virtually leapt to the bookcase, which was growing more soaked by the minute. The water sloshed in the hollow enclave above me, streaming through the cracks in the ancient wood and rapidly growing into an indoor waterfall. Several rivulets were cascading off of the top of the shelf and dripping atop a group of dusty volumes. I frantically shoved one of the towels into the space between the top of the books and the underside of the shelf, M. Hertz's distant tinny monologue rattling on heedlessly in the background. He was laughing at something, doubtless a joke only he could hear.
I could not reach the ceiling without some sort of assistance, and there were no ladders in sight. I failed to suppress a loud groan and tore my hand through my hair furiously, causing a few frizzy strands to escape from their ponytail. My skin was clammy beneath the gray sweatshirt, and my head spun wildly.
The voice on the telephone suddenly stopped. I balked, stomach lurching, and ran over to the phone, my horrified gaze fixated on the now convex ceiling.
"What was that, Monsieur?" My voice sounded an octave higher than usual, and I cleared my throat in a desperate attempt to seem unperturbed.
"I just wanted to know what time I should bring them by."
"Bring…" There was a piteous creak. Wood couldn't bend like that. There was no way wood was meant to bend like that. "Bring…what?"
"The…um…the librettos."
"Oh, I…the…right. How…" I swallowed hard. "Uh…tomorrow would be fine. Any…any time tomorrow…"
"Aw…darn, um…you know, tomorrow's not really good for me. " He sighed. "I'm actually leaving for Brittany in the morning. There's a hotel up there that's giving these great rates, and you can't pass up a deal like that, you know? I've never seen the northern coast, but I've heard it's gorgeous. You ever been there?"
Somewhere in the back of my mind images of Perros drifted forward lazily. I couldn't tell him that, yes, I had been there before, because that would doubtless spark more conversation on his part, and I couldn't afford that, I really couldn't, because the ceiling was buckling under the weight of what now had to be several pounds of water.
"No, I haven't, but—"
"Oh, you should go! I've only seen pictures, but it looks great. Rocky beaches and trees and all the old abbeys and there's this great furniture store somewhere up there, too. I'm looking to get a couch, but darned if I can't remember the name of the store. It's been driving me nuts for days. I think it starts with a 'D.' Dupin? De…de Something-or-Other…aw, geez, don't you hate that? When you can't remember something for the life of you? Ha, I've seriously been—"
"When could you bring the librettos over, M. Hertz?" I interrupted with more force than I meant to. I felt terrible speaking to him like that, I truly did, but if I didn't get rid of him within the next ten seconds, the financial section was a goner.
He made a little disapproving noise at the sound of my irritable voice. "Um, well…"
"Today?" I figured my best bet was to feed him options.
"I—gee, you think that would work? I suppose I could stop over today. Didn't really have much planned, aside from packing, you know. Which reminds me, I should probably get a new toothbrush for the trip. Do you know where I could get a new-?"
"Time?" I practically shouted.
The affronted noise came again, but he eventually answered, "Uhh…what-what time is good for you guys?"
"Any time. I don't care. Any..." Plop. The water was growing ferociously insistent now, the roof screaming in agony.
Plop. Plop. Plopplopplopplop.
Please no, please, please, I can't reach it, I can't…oh, please don't—
"Let's see…" I heard M. Hertz's voice as if through a tunnel. My heart was throbbing madly in my eardrums. "It's two now…oh, wait, that's right, I forgot to reset my watch after I got the battery replaced. Ha, man, I'm an airhead sometimes…so let's see…what is it, three?"
I groaned and hurled another towel towards the bookcase. It missed and fell to the floor pathetically.
"What about four?" he continued unabashed, "Would that be alright?"
"It is four," I whimpered.
"It's—oh, what do you know, it is! Darn watch! Five, then?"
But I did not stay to squeak out a response, because at that second, the ceiling let out a mighty final lament and bulged outwards, outwards, stretching like some sort of bizarre wooden rubber. I dropped the receiver and launched myself at the soon-to-be scene of the catastrophe, swiping and grabbing as many books as I could out of harm's way. Then my fingers tore frantically at the bookshelf itself. It was so massive that I'd only managed to pull it about two feet away from the wall when something screeched, followed by what sounded like an approaching monsoon. I watched in horror as the torrent of rainwater fell down as if in slow motion, threatening to douse the old bookshelf that Antoinette was so stubbornly proud of.
I didn't think—I just threw myself behind the mammoth piece of furniture and, summoning up whatever feeble strength I could muster, hurled myself furiously against its unvarnished back. By some miracle, some unheard of stroke of luck, it gave beneath the push, creaking like a giant rusty hinge as it fell forward and landed on the ground with a vengeful crash loud enough to wake the Titans at the same moment a storm splashed into the room and onto the only person foolish enough to wait for its arrival.
Me.
My knees buckled beneath the weight of the water and I plunged forward, my hands sliding out from under me on the floorboards slick with water. My chin collided angrily with the ground, sending a sharp pain ricocheting through my jaw. The pain was momentarily blinding, and for several seconds I sat there, dripping and spitting out mouthfuls of brown rainwater that smelled of antiques, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the throbbing headache that had exploded into my skull. When it had subsided slightly, I opened my eyes, dreading the devastation.
The ancient bookcase lay defeated beside me, broken in two by the impact and decades of use. Its shelves were now nothing but jagged shards of wood pointing towards the gaping chasm in the ceiling at wayward angles. A few of the books had been successfully tossed out of harm's way, but I noticed with a dull sense of horror that a large pile of them had become hopelessly waterlogged. One of those unlucky tomes squatted feebly by my bleeding hand, which had been scratched and splintered as I'd tried in vain to wrestle the bookshelf away from its impending doom. I picked up the book and shook out its swollen, dripping pages, groaning as I eyed the title.
The History of Belgian Coin Debasement.
Numbly, I tossed it aside where it splashed back into its grave. I put my hand on the wall to steady myself, attempting to stand and salvage whatever I could, but my feet gave way and I toppled back into the murky puddle that sprawled smoothly across the floor. I'd landed shoulder first this time, and it throbbed in unison with my bruised jaw.
A few feet away M. Hertz's cautious voice sounded from the abandoned receiver.
"So...five's good, then?