I nodded respectfully and replied calmly, “My name is Feodor, I served with a man by the name of Jonathon Doyle, who I believe was engaged to the lady of this house.”
“Oh really!” she snapped, “we’ve had four men with news of Mister Doyle already, two said he was dead, one said he was sick and the other said he was alive and well and to be given awards for his bravery! We don’t need any more lies from strangers, sir!”
“I was a friend of his,” I explained. The woman snorted and was about to shut the door, when I showed her Jonathon’s photograph of Lucy. “Is this your lady?” I asked her.
“That was his!” she murmured, snatching the frame from my hand “where did you steal that from?” I told her that I must see Miss Lucy and, after much debate, the woman disappeared into the house and I heard the creak of stairs as she ascended to her lady’s room. I heard their voices and then the lighter sound of a young woman coming downstairs. The lady who opened the door next was tall and elegant, wearing a dark green dress. She brushed her golden hair away from her face and looked enquiringly at me. “Well? Where is he? Where is my Jonathon?”
I sighed and lowered my head. “I am afraid, lady, that your fiancé is dead.”
Lucy sagged and said very quietly, “you had better come in.”
I followed her into her stylish home, and into a small room decorated in pale blue. I told her everything I knew about Jonathon, of his death and of my relationship with him. She listened in silence, neither weeping, nor cursing. She seemed distant, as if she were not a part of the world. When I had finished she said at length, “poor dear Jonathon. I appreciate your help, Feodor, but could you please tell me, in what country does he now lie?”
“He is being carried by ship to this country, madam, on my own instructions,” I told her, “I thought it would be better for you to bury him in his native land.”
She smiled faintly, as if my words were mere echoes of an old memory. “Yes, thank you.” She remained silent for a considerable time before she turned to me and asked, “will you stay for his funeral?”
“I would be honoured,” I said. In fact, I stayed for longer than the funeral. I stayed even when the bombs of the second war began to fall. I remained in England until that war was over, when the dictator was killed, when I decided to move back to France. I liked it there, it was full of culture and beauty, but far enough away from my homeland. Although I knew that my family must have died out, my lady doctor lying in her tomb and my tutor rotting in his, but I still felt that to return there, and to feed from the people of that country would be the most terrible crime I could ever commit.
For many decades I lived much the same life I had always lived, changing my clothes only to fit the fashions and appear normal, renting rooms for a while in remote places. Then at last, not that long ago, in fact, I came to Paris. Ah, gay Paris! Mother of the arts! More beautiful than any other city in the world. I haunted the galleries, and the streets of Montmatre, and the Opera House by Rue Scribe, and the cemeteries where those who have earned fame now lie in lavish tombs. I wandered like a lost soul in paradise through the night-lit streets, picking my prey carefully. I was alone in Montmatre, one cold night, leaning against a sign for the Metro, when the last great event of my long life so far began. I had been watching a youth for some time now, he was a few years older than I had been on the night of my half-death, a rather scrawny lad, with bright blue eyes and straw hair. It was him I watched then, walking up the street with a casual air. He had a strange way of moving, every gesture was exaggerated and he seemed to disjoint his limbs with every step. What amazed me most, at that point, was to realise that he was walking straight towards me. He kept walking until he stood very close to me, looked me up and down and shook his head as if astonished. “What a fascinating creature you are!” he exclaimed, “you know, you have incredible bone structure. My name’s Louis, by the way. I know you’ve been following me. Do you want a job?”
I was astounded. I told him that I had a lot of money and that I did not need a job. He laughed at that and replied that I should have something better to do with my time than to follow him around. He explained that he worked in, or almost ran, a specialist club in the heart of Montmatre, called Le Carnival des Horruers, where people with bizarre traits and abilities could work quite happily. He explained that he himself was a double-jointed contortionist, not too incredible in itself, but with his odd looks and good organisation skills he was appointed by the owner to run it while he was away, which was almost all of the time. This club was the haunt of dozens of “trendy” young people and was very popular apparently. Its owner, a man named M. Quincy Rice, a rich and eccentric foreigner, wanted a new member of staff having lost another recently. That was why Louis was searching the streets and that was why he was drawn to me. He told me that the pay was very good, you always meet new people and that you can leave whenever you like, since the sort of people who get jobs in that sort of bar are often the sort of people who need to keep moving. He told me to think about it, and that if I wanted to join, I should meet him in the club. He gave me the address and then wandered off.
