How My Perfect Life Was Inverted
Chapter Sixteen: Subconscious Tea Party
The moment Governor Hale was told of the ambiguous fate of the missing chandelier, all hell broke loose: if he had been angry at Christophe's little 'trick' of kidnapping his wife, it did not compare to the burning fury that flashed in his brown eyes as one by one he summoned the entire household—from his elegant, aristocratic wife to the lowliest slave—to his personal study. Christophe did not find the idea of facing the Governor's wrath a second time (at least not so soon, anyway) appealing; to such an extent that, when the Governor's clerk appeared in the parlour to express his master's desire for an audience with his nephew, my brother very gallantly suggested me instead.
"We both have blue eyes and brown hair, and besides, there is very little difference between nightshirts for men and those for women," he said to me persuasively as he pulled me along by the elbow. I shuddered as he glanced at the long, shapeless shirt I wore beneath my lightly-flowered dressing-gown; although it was perhaps a little early to be going to bed, it did feel nice to wear something loose in the Caribbean heat. "Hopefully he'll be so incensed over the stolen chandelier that he won't even notice that you're not actually me."
To be fair, I could see the reasoning in his suggestion; the two of us looked a little similar, and I suppose that if Christophe was to change into a nightshirt and let his hair down, we would look alike. If you ignore the fact that Christophe's shoulders were broader than mine, and the slight rising of my chest that was my bosom. Oh, and his jaw was a little stronger, whilst mine was feminine and delicate, and his eyebrows, whilst possessing the same elegant arch that mine had, were certainly a little darker and thicker…
We abruptly stopped walking, thus pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Here we are," Christophe told me, in surprisingly good cheer. "Uncle's study."
I looked up at him from under my lashes, swallowing before I voiced what I had been thinking our whole walk from the parlour in which the Governor's entire immediate family awaited their turn.
"Christophe," I said, smiling a little as I reached up to trace the curve of his cheek. Was it my imagination, or did he shudder? Not much, but just a little bit… "Christophe; oh, Christophe… This isn't going to work."
"Don't say that," he pleaded; "Nicolette…" he whined as I gave him my most doubtful look. "Look, you be me and I'll—I'll… buy you something. Please?" he added. Before I could answer, he cheerfully continued, "Thank you; you're a wonderful sister. Good luck."
And then he kissed me.
I felt my body stiffen in shock; I had been raising my head, about to voice another French protest, and he had very clearly been aiming for my cheek but … But…
Well, why didn't he pull away?
As if sensing my thoughts, Christophe promptly broke our contact; when I looked at his face, he didn't seem at all flustered, or embarrassed. It had been a genuine mistake on his part, I realised, and he clearly didn't feel it necessary to apologise. Instead, Christophe tilted my head down, his lips pressing against my forehead; to add insult to injury, he even ruffled my hair, as though I were an eight-year-old child…
"In you go," he said, and I squeaked as he opened the door and unceremoniously pushed me through it. The door slammed shut, and I assumed that he was hurrying as quickly as possible to return to the parlour, where Geneviève waited.
Shaking my head, I slowly turned from the door, taking in Governor Hale, fully-dressed and seated behind his desk, scribbling something no doubt chandelier-related on a scrap of parchment in the flickering candlelight. By the time he had set his quill down and raised his eyes to mine, I had quietly recomposed myself after Christophe's accidental gesture in the doorway.
"Wh—Ah, Nicola," he greeted as he saw that it was his niece who had entered; I wrinkled my nose at the way his eyes had briefly darted to my covered chest, as though to confirm that it really was a woman standing before him dressed in only her nightwear.
"Nicolette," I corrected in a manner that I hoped was not impertinent. The Governor nodded at my correction, waving away his mild mistake from his comfortable seat behind his desk. He was not an impressive man, as far as impressive men go: I would say he was of average height, with middling shoulders and a slightly protruding paunch gently straining against his embroidered waistcoat. Atop his head lay a large wig of pale chestnut; in an odd way it complemented his sunken eyes and drooping, sallow jowls. He must have been at least fifty, perhaps even sixty; certainly too old to be holding the title of Governor for much longer. I would later learn that in Hale's case, Governor was something of a courtesy title; although he did in fact wield the highest power on the island of Jamaica, Hale was a man who had long since decided to hand all official duties to younger, more able men.
"I was expecting your brother," he told me. "Fetch him for me, won't you? A young lady such as yourself can't be expected to concern herself with such matters."
Was there a carefully veiled insult there? I gave an awkward bob of a curtsy and promptly left, entering the parlour and announcing that, really, Christophe was the man Governor Hale wished to speak to. My brother winced, and I saw him turn to his wife, apparently about to ask her if she could go instead, hesitate as he looked in her eyes, and slowly stand. I turned away at the sight and scurried back up to my room as fast I could, where I tore off my dressing-gown, flopped onto the bed, and waited with my arms sullenly crossed for Flavio to return from his own interview.
"She has a stupid face!" I blurted out the moment the door opened.
"…Pardon?"
"Geneviève," I said crossly. "She looks like an idiot—a happy, grinning, submissive idiot—and that is why I don't like her."
"…And what does this have to do with the missing chandelier?" Flavio queried as he closed the door gently behind him.
"Oh, screw the chandelier," I waved away. "Flavio, we have the pressing matter of my inbred sister-in-law to attend to."
"Inbred? Sierra, this jealousy of yours—"
"Jealousy?" I interrupted. "Who said anything about jealousy?"
"W-Well, you do like Christophe, don't you?" he asked me. "In a way that… that… is not entirely becoming of a sister?"
I opened and closed my mouth several times; for some reason, the idea of Flavio knowing of my little incestuous crush caused my gut to twist and writhe in discomfort.
"I… I… I'm going to go to bed now," I said uneasily. "Are you going to join me, Flavio, or is it a little too early for you?"
Flavio shook his fair head. "No," he answered; "No; I think I'll go out to the erm… outside…" He gestured vaguely in the general direction of the balcony. "Catch the night air, create chipmunks out of stars…"
I gently chuckled at this.
"Alright; goodnight Flavio."
I didn't fall asleep straight away, but when I eventually did (whilst Flavio was still out stargazing), I found myself having an all-too familiar dream…
"Oh, for God's sake!" I screeched as I traipsed unhappily through the field of blinding green, my white skirts pulled above my ankles. "This is ridiculous! Why am I having the same dream over and over and over again? Are you trying to tell me something? Is all this sparrow-squashing some insane metaphor for—weight loss? A desire to go back to university? Or a belated regret for willingly partaking in prostitution?—What?"
There was only an eerie silence, which was odd, considering how in my previous dreams, there was always the unrelenting presence of haunting birdsong. I furrowed my brow at this, suddenly unnerved; dropping my skirts, I wrapped my arms protectively about myself, and trailed carefully along. After some time of careful walking, I eventually came across something… alive.
Sort of.
At first glance, it looked like any other run-of-the-mill tea party; a low round table, chairs, occupants, cups and saucers. The occupants of the table ranged from life-sized teddy bears to fluffy pink rabbits so small that several were sharing a seat. The young hostess's back was turned to me, chatting amicably away to her lifeless guests as she poured imaginary liquid into empty cups, but I could tell—somehow, I knew—that she was a child of exceptional beauty. She was wearing a simple, elegant dress tied with an ivory silk sash, all glowing flawless white—you'd think that living in an endlessly sunny meadow would leave at least one grass stain. Her hair fell to her waist, straight but for a slight curl at the tips; a glistening waterfall of ebony that began at some point beneath the brim of her straw hat, trimmed with blue. For a child, I found her arms to be rather slender, and very pale, disappearing beneath the short gentle puffs of her silk-trimmed sleeves.
"…And would Mister Bigglesworth like one sugar or two?" she was chirruping with bubbly courtesy as I carefully approached. "Oh hello Si-Si! We didn't think that you would join us—have a seat." Her small, delicate hand gestured vaguely at a low chair piled with lace-edged napkins; this was clearly a child of some refinement.
Very nervously, I moved to the proffered seat, scooping the cloth squares up onto an empty space at the table. The chair, as I said, was low, a child's chair, and I had to bend my legs to such an extent that I could easily rest my chin on my knees. When I had made myself as comfortable as it was possible, I raised my eyes to the girl's face, and smiled.
"Hello, Pearl."
The words were spoken softly, as light and insignificant as the flap of a butterfly's wing; but she heard me regardless, raising her head to beam brightly at me. Her face, I now saw, was radiant; she had always been pale, but now her skin had adopted the cold, smooth perfection of marble, supernaturally luminous beneath the overcasting shadow of her hat. She didn't say a single word, simply looking at me with such untouchable tranquillity that for a moment I doubted whether this girl could possibly be the same as the lively, animated creature I had met in Tortuga.
At a loss, I asked what was perhaps the most redundant question of all time:
"Is this a dream?"
Her angelic serenity was quickly shattered; her glistening eyes turned heavenwards before disappearing beneath her feathery lashes as she groaned in exasperation.
"Of course it's a dream," she told me in such a patronising tone of voice that I knew at once she really was Pearl. "Do you really think that, had this not been a dream, I would willingly be serving air to an anachronistic collection of inanimate and uninvited toys that I have never before seen nor mingled with in my entire life, just so I can fulfil a silly little cliché that will have you squealing at the infinite, immeasurable, and incontestable adorability of my small and special selfness?"
"Well, yes."
Pearl pouted and turned away with a huffed, "No tea for you then." I smiled and, rising slightly from my seat, reached out to clasp Pearl to me in an inescapable hug.
"My teapot!" she squealed, horrified as it clattered to the grass beside us. Her worry soon vanished as she immediately returned the gesture, burying her face deep into my bodice as her hands gripped at my hair. I pressed my nose as deep into her hair as I could, inhaling the addictive perfume that was Pearl's scent. In an attempt to pull her ever closer, I fell out of my seat with a yelp that was only drowned out by the sound of Pearl's squeak; we collapsed onto the grass in a tangle of arms and skirts, Pearl lying completely on top of me, still clutched tightly to my neck.
"Are you… really here?" I said at last when my excitement had faded enough for me to create a coherent sentence.
I felt her sniffle against my skin as she silently shook her head; her reply only caused me to grip her ever tighter, determined not to let this… ghost, this last trace of Pearl, slip away.
"I should have known that you weren't really you," I said at last, pushing off her hat and lazily twisting her hair about my fingers. "Your hair was never this long alive."
"Does hair grow after death then, Si-Si?"
"No, honey."
"Oh."
There was such soft disappointment in that single syllable that I was overcome with the urge to kiss her. Lifting her carefully off of my chest, I sat up and, uncaring of the strands of grass I knew had twisted into my hair, bent down to plant a loving kiss on her forehead as my arms encircled her in a gentler, but no less possessive, embrace.
"Look at you," I murmured when I had pulled away, unable to keep the tears out of my voice. "You look so… peaceful. At rest."
"And in a way, Si-Si… I am," she responded candidly, and her eyes, though glittering, seemed oddly still and serene. Alive, she had always looked like a delicate china doll—if you could get her to stand still for long enough, that is. Now though, I could see that death had transformed her into one: not once had I seen her blink.
And as I watched her watching me watching her, I was struck with the most terrible thought that had ever crossed my mind: that perhaps it was a good thing that she had died so prematurely, if her unparalleled beauty, her unsurpassed vivacity could be preserved. Had she lived a full life, her looks would have faded, withering away like a sonnet, inked on durable parchment, fades, until one had to squint to simply see the weakened shadows of words. And old age would have stripped her of her contagious, youthful verve, until she was simply a shrivelled, sapless shell; tired, lethargic, spending her monotonous days simply waiting for death to come for her, at last. Perhaps it was better this way…
The dark vapidity of this thought made me shiver in disgust; I had to bury my face into her shoulder for fear of her reading it in my eyes. Though try as I might, I couldn't suppress the shudder that wracked my body; I just couldn't believe that I had thought, justified and articulated, for more than a fleeting moment, that it was a good thing Pearl had died.
"Si-Si?" I heard her ask, feeling her beautiful, lifeless eyes looking down at me worriedly. "What's wrong with my Si-Si?"
"…You were far too young to die." I honestly didn't know whether I was speaking more to her or to myself.
Needless to say, I was more than a little surprised to hear her snort in amusement; such a graceless, unladylike gesture that she seemed almost human.
"What?" I asked her as the snort was soon followed by an ongoing snicker. "What? What's so amusing?"
"Silly Si-Si—Why did you assume I was dead?"
I stared at her, blank and uncomprehending as her words echoed in my ears: Why did you assume I was dead?
"Well, you are… Aren't you?"
She fluttered her lashes at me in mock bewilderment.
"Am I?"
"…Yes?"
Another snort; "Oh! Silly little Si-Si…" she giggled with a shake of her head. I felt her reach down to take my hand in both of hers, her slender fingers gently stroking my upturned palm.
"Now why would Si-Si ever think such a horrible and untrue thing?" she asked me in a soothing, patronising manner. "Tell Pearl all about it."
I bit my lip, uncertain of where to start. Clucking her tongue impatiently, Pearl decided to throw me a line, as they say.
"Did Si-Si see Pearl get killified?" she queried innocently.
"Wh—No…" I looked down at our intertwined hands, noting how comforting it was to have her hold me in this way. "I was… You were…" A pause as I swallowed an unexpected lump in my throat. "But I did see your body…" I whispered quietly, as though afraid that she would shrivel into the mutilated corpse I had seen and had tried so hard to forget.
"Oh you saw my body, did you?" she parroted, and I knew she was rolling her eyes. "So you saw my body and assumed I was dead, is that it?"
Slowly, I nodded.
"Yes…"
"Oh, Si-Si!" she tutted, reaching up to playfully swat my nose as she shook her head in exasperation. "Si-Si, Si-Si, Si-Si, Si-Si, Si-Si…"
"What?" I asked as she continued to chant my name and look at me as though I was an incredibly slow child.
"You saw my body—you and I both know that you saw my body—but did you ever see my face?"
"Well of course I—" My voice died an abrupt death as her exasperated question finally sunk in. Because of course, I hadn't. And I explained to her why. "Your face… it was mutilated, trampled beyond recognition… By a horse, I think; I…"
"So if Si-Si didn't see Pearl's face," she interjected with maddening confidence, "How could Si-Si know that the little girl Si-Si thought was Pearl was actually Pearl?"
"Well—" I spluttered, too shocked by the implications of her words to speak. The girl's body flashed suddenly before me; her dress had been stained with mud and blood, making it impossible to have identified its original colour, especially in the limited candlelight. The same thing applied to her hair, and I recalled with vivid clarity that there was a slight curl to it that Pearl's locks had never possessed. I hadn't really thought much of it at the time—hadn't truly noticed it, in fact—but now I couldn't help but wonder…
Then I remembered a little trinket that Jack now wore tightly around his wrist, and my hopes were dashed.
"She had the necklace…" I said aloud.
"Pardon?"
"Your necklace," I repeated, my fingers brushing gently at her unadorned throat. "The black pearl, on the string? Something Jack brought back for you, long before we met."
She wrinkled her little nose in irritation, miffed at this latest development. "Was I—she—wearing it?"
"No; you had it in your hand. We thought—the theory was—that you dropped it and were picking it up, and then some horse and cart—"
"I didn't even realise it had fallen off," Pearl interrupted once more, though I felt that she was speaking more to herself. "Si-Si, didn't you ever think it possible that someone else might have picked it up instead? I have to focus my mind on other things besides cheap little trinkets Papa brought back as a last-minute birthday gift! Have you any idea how much effort it takes to look this small and sweet and bouncy all the time? It's certainly not completely natural!"
I wanted so much to hope that what she claimed was true; that she was alive, that there was a mistake, that, that…
"If you are indeed alive," I countered, though I couldn't hide how my voice was quivering with excitement, "then how come you're here, talking to me?"
"BECAUSE!" Pearl exploded with such passion that I flinched and shrank back. "Because, Si-Si, I am a figment of your long-suffering subconscious, and I am merely telling you what you already know! Or have you failed to notice that all of my reasoning for my argument comes from what you, not me, have seen with your own two eyes? And I though you were clever!" she huffed, crossing her arms and rocking back on her haunches.
"…Oh," I replied, and she nodded, wrinkling her nose as she did so.
"Yes," she sulked, her apparent irritation at my dimness only growing with each syllable I uttered. "Now do you understand?"
Slowly, dumbly, I nodded.
"I should have known that I gave up on you too soon," I informed her guiltily, pausing only to correct myself: "No, we gave up on you; Jack and I. Oh Pearl, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't apologise to me," the girl snapped sullenly. "Apologise to the real Pearl, when you find her. You are going to find me, aren't you?" she added sharply as I hesitated.
"You know I want to, Pearl," I began slowly. "Of course you do, you're a figment of my imagination. I just don't know how; I don't have the faintest idea where I could even begin to look for you. You're still in Kingston, right?"
"Can you think of another place I could go? Or even how to get there? Oh, Si-Si," she crooned, her face softening at my expression. Smiling, she reached up her small hand to gently caress my cheek. "You look so confused; you look like you're going to cry…"
"Tears of joy, I assure you," I sniffled, dabbing at my eyes and flashing her a shaky smile. But the truth was that I was suddenly full of fear and loathing: if what this Pearl, this figment, said was true, then Jack and I had left her to roam the streets of Kingston completely alone and unprotected. The primary reason Jack had taken her out of Tortuga made me shudder in recollection; I couldn't even begin to contemplate what horror might have befallen her here. As my imagination supplied me one horrifying image after another, that same thought plagued me once more; that perhaps Pearl would have been better off dead…
But if Pearl was alive… If Pearl was alive, how would I find her? It would be horrible if my efforts at locating her had concluded in vain, when all along she was huddled in the shadow of a crumbling building I had simply breezed past, too terrified to move or call for help. But then I remembered Jack's friend, Mr Forrester, and how he and his wife took in orphaned and abandoned children; surely there were many other citizens as kind, as charitable as him? A middle-aged spinster, perhaps, who couldn't resist offering a pair of bright blue eyes food and shelter? I could only hope.
"Si-Si's having a lot of thoughts now, isn't she?" Pearl's sweet voice sang to me. "Good; let Si-Si have her thoughts. But Pearl thinks that it's only polite to let Si-Si know that she must wake up now."
-x!x-