The world was never quiet
Lie 5 : He didn't touch me.
I don't want to detail everything I did with Olaf – everything going from chasing the Baudelaire to work as an ophthalmologist assistant to trap them. I only had a very subordinate role in this, namely recount all his troop's adventures to the Daily Punctilio in place of true journalists. The objective was of course to cover his back every time his plans failed. And believe me, they kept on failing.
Jacques obviously gave me everything I needed to make my articles useful to the Volunteers. I used each and every codes I knew, every ways and means to hide messages in innocent sentences, everything to make sure the organization knew everything that happened. I already said Jacques was an incredibly good and incredibly noble man – but all his goodness prevented him from being strategic. Because theses codes were used by every Volunteers, Olaf included. But he forgot to tell me – so that my only luck in this was that he didn't read the newspapers.
The fact remains that I covered his disastrous adventures and shaky plans so much that he ended up seeing me as a rather useful tool. A bit of efforts, alcohol and… Rapprochement were enough to be considered a true ally. And even if he was despicable – still is, if he's alive, I was more than aware that I was lucky to count him as my friend, and not as my foe, though my list of enemies was nowhere close to the one I have today. Of course, being considered as an ally also meant my leg was stuck in a bear trap that could close very, very easily but to be honest, my pride was such that I was simply unable to realize it. Pride that, rather ironically, wasn't dented at all by everything I had done to get closer. All I did was getting information for Jacques.
And each time I came back home, only seldom given Olaf's comings and goings, he listened to me as he would have listened to the messiah. It may sound stupid, and truly it was, but it felt like I mattered. I was dead, remember: I didn't have any existence but the one I was given by the people I was around. The disguise I wore, the role I played with Olaf and his fellows was one existence. The true Cassandre, at least what looked like it less and less, was the one I saw in Jacques' eyes. And what I saw reminded me that I was searching for my father and I was a good person, on the right side of the Schism. Later on, what I saw would remind me that I didn't have any father anymore and that I was no longer a good person.
Back then, I still was. I liked to believe I was anyway, even if I was involved more or less directly with Josephine Anwhistle's death and the Baudelaire's umpteenth escape to the Lucky Smells Lumbermill. I don't need to write down these events, another did it better and with more proves and documents than I ever had. Back then, I said, I really thought I had no blood on my hand. I only got involved with the organization, not the events. Even when they directly hurt the Baudelaire, I found comfort in the idea that they were not safe where they were anyway if it could happen. Jacques never talked about it – I thought it was only collateral damages. That my more or less physical and more or less objectionable (more than less, in both cases) efforts were not this important. In fact, he just blinded himself and I didn't help him otherwise.
But I had information and it's all that mattered. Olaf didn't have my father anymore, obviously, and he'd gone back to his initial captor. "I had better things to do than baby-sitting a converted Volunteer," he told me, completely drunk and slumped on the other side of the sofa we both collapsed on. "He didn't have the sugar bowl anyway." No shit. But anyway, its captors – since Olaf never mentioned their names, wanted him out of the town as soon as possible and they would use the In Auction to do so in a few weeks.
"We need to get ready," I told Jacques as I was removing my make up and getting my wig off. "He will use one of the batch to…
- Cassandre, Cassandre, easy would you? We can't just interrupt the Auction and buy every batch hoping to find your father.
- That's not what I said.
- That's what you suggested."
I wasn't fair with him. He spread the information I gathered to every Volunteers he knew to organize my father's rescue. All I saw was that I was doing all the work while he all he did were useless shadowing and writing empty Dispatches. My ego, flattered by Olaf and my successes, flirted with arrogance almost eighty-five per cent of my time and I terribly lacked tactic.
"You talked about a building, the 667 Dark Avenue," I retorted without looking at him, focused on my cleanup. "Jerome Sa… Se…
- Jerome Squalor. He is not a Volunteer, his flat was only useful because it was linked to the Baudelaire's house.
- If I was sequestering a man and I absolutely wanted to keep him out of the world's awareness, I would use this passage. Especially if its owner knows nothing about it."
This time, I raised my eyes. He was close to me, arms crossed, and stared at me. My point hit the mark, I knew it from the ways his lips were pursed and his eyebrow furrowed. He was thinking – or investigating, since he was an investigator. I was finally able to retrieve my true face and grabbed more neutral clothes than those I was wearing to change. I was used to do it in the middle of the flat – though it didn't mean much, given its ridiculous size, partly because Jacques wasn't there most of the time.
But I understood quite quickly that it was not an excellent idea when I heard him clear his throat and when I saw him ostensibly turn away. I wasn't even naked, I was still wearing my underwear, but a bit of redness came to my cheeks and I pretended I was so very interested by the dirty windows in front of me. I must admit that the first thing I felt was satisfaction, but then I realized the way he looked at me wasn't a friendly way, or any way suitable for a man of my father's age. The silent that lingered was heavy, rather embarrassing and very hard to break. It took me all my confidence to continue.
"Anyway, you need to reach this guy before Olaf and the others find the idea interesting.
- Jerome will contact us himself if a bunch of armed and unknown people barge in his flat.
- They won't barge in armed," I sighed as if it was obvious. "We're talking about Olaf.
- Of course, I almost forgot you're his new best friend."
I was packing my stuff and I remember I stopped, frozen, and kept the chest half-open for long seconds, before I finally closed it and turned to him. I said it, Jacques never spoke about what I did with Olaf. Never. And each time he could have, he simply didn't.
The truth is that I feared this moment, because I knew that would mean that my two lives could collide. And because that would mean that I would have to face my incoherencies. So I stared at him, dead in the eyes, hoping to discourage him. Because of course, a kid of barely twenty was going to intimidate a Volunteer twice her age.
"What do you mean?
- I don't know. What do you understand?
- I don't like this, Jacques," I groaned. "You're not with me in there.
- No and that's apparently a good thing because I wouldn't be as productive as you are." He frowned. Even more. "And I wouldn't be able to predict a villain like Olaf's actions, for lack of knowing him well enough. But it doesn't sound like an issue for you."
This is one of those episodes I look back to, wondering what would have happened if I had done something else. Of course, there are all these instances when I said I didn't have the sugar bowl. But this episode is of another stature. If I had not slapped Jacques, and accepted I was going too far with Olaf, maybe he wouldn't have stopped me from going back to him – but maybe everything that followed would have been different. He would have kept an eye on me, would have prevented me from doing a great deal of the things that led me, well, to what I am today, and maybe he would even be still alive to remind me how bad I screwed up back then.
But I did slap him. Violently. That was so violent and so sudden that he didn't have time to react or understand what was going on. In the blink of an eye, he had my hand's red imprint of his cheeks and a haggard look on his face. And I ? Well, I was staring. And still I thought I was a good person back then. He was looking at him as if he couldn't even get grasp of what used happened. Can't blame him, I'm not certain I knew myself. But his face quickly change to take this… This expression that almost had me terrified. A mix of anger and disgust that immediately nailed me down to earth and made me realize what I did.
"So this is how he influences you?" He shook his head. "I should have never let you go.
- You just called me a slut. You thought I would just accept it?
- It's only an insult if it's true.
- I did what I had to do!" I turned away, far enough to make sure he wouldn't slap me back. "We needed intel, Jacques. We know my father is nearby, not matter how I…
- That's the problem, Cassandre. It does matter."
And his face went back to what I was used to – a hangdog look. Sad. My heart tightened when I understood a part of the trust he put in me just exploded, and I gritted my teeth. It was my fault, after all. As much as I willingly slapped me, I willingly got Olaf drunk and, for good measure, willingly drunk with him. And as much as I willingly got a monster drunk, I willingly followed him to his bed. The mere thought of it, at this point, looked absolutely dreadful. Now I just remember it as one of the dozen mistakes I made. Not the first, not the last, and absolutely not the worst.
Then again I made a horrible choice. Maybe the worst of my life and his. Olaf had taught me many things, amongst which the fact that I was not as righteous as I thought I was, and the fact that I was an excellent liar. He told me I could and had to develop this gift. And I couldn't letJacques think that I had turned into a slut – no, I just couldn't. Everything but his disappointment. Everything but his disgusted look. So I sighed, lowered my eyes, and did exactly what it often takes to manipulate a man: I cried.
"I'm sorry, Jacques," I whispered. I wasn't entirely lying. "I didn't want… I overreacted, but with everything that's going on, my father and everything, I just can't be calm. I don't want you to think I…
- Cassandre…" And it worked. He was panicking. "Listen, I…
- No you're right. I crossed the line with Olaf. But I wanted to go good, I wanted to track my father and the sugar bowl and…" And there I lied. Completely. "He didn't touch me. Never."
Strangely enough, now that I think of it, the lie was worst than the act itself. At first looked extremely uncomfortable, but it eyes told a great deal of what he thought. He was relieved. The mere thought broke my heart again and I rushed in his arms. He closed them around my back and held me against him. And I closed my eyes, trying to forget what I just said.
It's not that sleeping with a man like Olaf is a shame – although it could be considered as such. But if only it'd been just for intel, it would have been fine, though still morally dubious. But it wasn't just for that, and never was.
Jacques is the love of my life. He was the love of my life when I met him, when he died, would be until I die. He's the ideal I never reached, the ideal I disappointed – he represents my every failure. But there was Olaf before him, and Olaf after him. His tale is not the place to explain it and even if I did, no one would understand. I don't understand. All I know is that Jacques kept alive a part of me that would have died way soon if not for him. The other part is the one that loved, not sure the word is even correct, and still do in a way, a monster. The part that failed him.