Chapter Text
“When, burning to the last their mortal ardour,
Our torch-like hearts their bannered flames unroll,
Their double light will kindle all the harder
Within the deep, twinned mirror of our soul.”Charles Baudelaire, The Death of Lovers, “Flowers of Evil”
The first thing that Gustave noticed as he stepped in was the pungent smell of fresh paint that lingered in the air. There was simply no mistaking that characteristic tingling in his nose. Oddly enough, a part of himself had always relished in this heady mixture of volatile solvent and probably carcinogenic chemicals: it smelled clean, free of any tarnishes, a blank slate. A new start. Only then, did he register how surprisingly cool was the air inside. It was pleasant; soft shivers chasing away the late-summer heat that clung to his clammy skin.
“You do realize that I already know what this place looks like, right?” Gustave chuckled.
“Not like this! Trust me, you’re in for a surprise,” Emma hushed as she gently ushered him forward, her hands still covering his eyes.
They took a few more cautious steps, the sole of their shoes echoing on the marble floor.
“Now, you may open your eyes.”
Gustave could help but let out a small gasp at the sight unfolding in front of him: pristine black marble, gold filigree, lavish carpets on a grand staircase and art deco wall lamps, all bathed in the warm glow of the dying sun that cascaded from high-set windows. Wherever he set his gaze, he only discovered new marvels to admire, words escaping the grasp of his wits, leaving him unable to describe the warmth blooming in his chest.
“But how?” Gustave finally managed to utter. “I thought the public subventions were not enough to fund a full renovation of the manor.”
“Well, it seems that some good fairy with plenty of money to spare caught words of our project and decided to make an anonymous donation. A very generous donation.”
“A very generous donation, indeed,” Gustave parroted, mouth still agape as he stared at the crystal chandelier.
Whoever worked on the restoration should be praised for the mastery of their craft: Gustave could barely superimpose in his mind the decrepit ruin that he had first visited with the magnificent sight before him. None was more deserving of praises though than Emma. From the very start, this whole project had been his sister’s idea, one that had germinated over years of observing the sorry state of the world and striving to change it, of wanting to make a difference. Caring for others had always been part of her, even as a child she would build houses for birds and beg crying their father not to put mousetraps in the basement. She had never outgrown this aching need to look out for others, instead she had put it in use to serving the community. She had spent years working for the city council of Paris as a specialist of questions pertaining to child protection and education, a tedious unfulfilling work of pushing against unmovable bureaucracy, and wrestling with unwilling politicians. As it is often the case, Emma’s breaking point had been one bad day at work, one more day of feeling incompetent, one too many.
That evening, his sister, all dishevelled and a weary smile on her lips, had shown up unexpected on Gustave’s doorstep with a bottle of Chablis in hand and one big idea. Since the city council had little to no intention of extending a helping hand to those in need, screw them, she would do it herself. The dream that had taken roots into her heart, a school dedicated to nurturing artistic talent among children, a haven where all artificial social barriers would be abolished, the same chance to find their own voice in this world freely offered to all. It was beautifully idealistic, maybe even a tad naïve if Gustave had been inclined to cynicism, but after a plate of roasted salmon and a few glasses of wine it had not seemed as insane.
Now that the idea had been voiced, it could not anymore be dismissed into the void as some spur-of-the-moment thought; words had granted it some measure of substance. Of that his sister had been aware, as much as she had been aware of the sheer size of the challenge that she had conjured the moment the words had passed her lips. This was probably why she had spent part of the evening trying to coax Gustave into joining her in her endeavour, at least partially.
Despite the tipsiness, Gustave had seen right through her little act; why Emma had truly come to him. It had been no mystery for whoever cared about him that he had been going through quite a rough patch at the time, he had been for months. He had been…struggling to adjust to his new life after the accident, a life without his left arm, a life without Sophie. Colours had all but bled from his life since he had woken up in a hospital bed, only to realise that the world surrounding him had turned into a canvas of ashy grief. He could barely remember these days through the numb haze of the painkillers, truly a blessing in disguise, otherwise he might have not survived the harrowing truth: she was gone and he was not.
Everything had felt both dull and painful afterwards, both his broken body and his mangled heart. Each day a new game of pretences, during which he fooled himself as much as the rest of the world. He played make-believe, pretending that he was still able to stand up in the morning and walk around, despite the agonizing pain of physiotherapy and adjusting to his new prosthetic, despite the loss of interest in his job as an engineering consultant, despite the overwhelming will to lie in bed and let himself dissolve in a dreamless sleep, only forget that he was the one who was still breathing, whose heart was still beating despite the gaping wound that marred it.
He had loved Sophie, he still loved her, but Gustave had soon come to the conclusion that he could not spend the rest of his life staring at the pieces of his shattered life, waiting for his soul to shrivel and rot. So he had done the only sensible thing to do, he had agreed to help his sister. It was close to one year and a half ago.
In a sense, Emma had saved him. Reluctantly at first, but then in earnest, Gustave had started to invest himself in his sister’s dream, to care about it as much as it had been his own. After a few months of juggling between appointments at the bank and stacks of paperwork on top of his actual job, he had finally decided to resign to fully dedicate himself to the school. Founding this it had become the lifeline that tethered him back to life, allowing him to slowly heal. Scar tissue, both literal and metaphorical, now covered still tender and jagged wounds. Grief was all but a blunt ache deep seated in the marrow of his bones, one that was bound to slowly fade, only flaring from time to time when something reminded him of what he had lost.
“So, what do you think?” Emma chimed in, breaking the thread of Gustave’s thoughts.
“It’s perfectly splendid.” He answered, closing the distance that separate him from his sister, to whom he would be eternally grateful, as he pulled her into a tight embrace.
And for the first time in a long while, Gustave felt a genuine smile tug at his lips.
“And it’s only the beginning! Although it might be the only beginning we get if we don’t hurry! It’s nearly eight and if we make Lune wait too long…”
“She’ll skin us alive.” Gustave filled in as his mind conjured the image of the stern stare that their friend would bestow upon them if they dared arrive late for dinner. “We better go now, then.”
They hurriedly left the foyer of the manor, their own very soon to be school. As Emma fumbled with an absurdly large keyring, trying to find the one closing the front door, Gustave took a few steps on the gravel path that led to the wrought-iron gate. Since the last time he had come, gardeners had managed the feat to clear the jungle of weeds and brambles that had somehow completely taken over the lawn and garden. Clean and clear paths now webbed among a rose garden, neatly trimmed hedges and a collection of gorgeous statues. Each leaf, each flower was glazed by the blazing light of the setting sun, as though the garden had been set aflame just for the beauty of it.
A sudden prickling on the nape of his neck sent an icy shiver down Gustave’s spine, jerking him out of his reverie. He spun around, a bewildered look painted on his face as he peered over the facade of the manor. Dark empty windows, like as many eyes, stared back at him. Coming from the depth of his brain, from that shadowy part where fears are born, a voice remarked that the house looked like the severed head of some grotesque giant. Gustave shuddered at the very thought, however preposterous it was. Despite the warm evening breeze that gently swayed the nearby cypresses, he could not shake off the cold sensation that coiled heavily in his guts: he could have sworn for a brief moment that somebody had been observing him from the manor.
His sister’s voice called him back from this dark corner of his mind. She was waiting for him at the gate, a half-puzzled, half-annoyed look on her face. Gustave jogged towards her, sparing one last glance over his shoulder to the manor that stood still among the stretching shadows of its garden. As he stepped out of the property and back in the boisterous streets of Paris, all full of life and noises, Gustave felt his passing fear dissolve like paint in turpentine.
Against all odds, and despite the whims of the Parisian metro, Gustave and Emma managed to make it right on time. The Bistrot des Poètes was Lune and Sciel’s all-time favourite restaurant. They say that looks are deceiving and the Bistrot was no exception: its plain aspect could have earned it the unflattering label of tourist trap. It would have been missing out on an authentically lively and homely place favoured by a crowd ranging from students of the Latin Quarter, artists fully embracing the bohemian lifestyle, to your average families. Sciel spotted them before her girlfriend, waving them towards their usual table on a quieter corner the terrace.
“Hi you two !” she greeted them, as she deftly stood to kiss their cheeks. “It was about time you arrive, Lune was starting to check her watch.”
“Sciel!” Lune whispered indignantly. “I only had a quick glance. Once!”
The waitress, recognizing regulars, soon came to place their orders, and Gustave finally allowed himself the small luxury to melt in the evening warmth, quite happy to simply listen to Sciel and Lune’s retelling of their two-weeks holiday in the Pyreneans, only nodding from time to time, or chuckling when Sciel described with great amount of details their unfortunate encounter with a herd of sheep. The sky above his head was slowly fading to a darker shade of blue, the air carried the subtle flagrance of the linden trees of the square across the street, he was having a chilled glass of rosé with his family by blood and choice, and for once Paris almost seemed to quiet down. The uncanny certainty of having been observed back at the manor -a mere figment of his imagination- had already been dismissed, nothing but a passing shadow on this peaceful evening.
“It’s nice to see you smile, Gustave.” Lune remarked, with half a smile of her own.
Gustave blushed, as his grin turned sheepish. He had known Lune since they were eighteen, when they were both young and awkward nerds with stars in their eyes whenever somebody mentioned science within a twenty-feet radius. Although their academic paths had diverged, him becoming an engineer, while Lune chose to follow her parents’ footsteps and study mathematics, they had only grown closer throughout the years; Gustave had been the one who introduced Emma to Lune’s brother Sol, to whom she was now engaged, while it was thanks to Lune that Gustave had met Sophie. They had long ago learned to decipher the secret language of each other’s emotions; he knew that under her somewhat cold and aloof demeanour, she deeply cared, just as she knew how hard it had been for him to cope with the accident.
“Is it because of the school?” Sciel gasped. “Emma told me that it was truly gorgeous, I can’t wait to see it tomorrow! Speaking of which, at what time should we come to give you a hand moving in?”
Gustave’s smile imperceptibly tensed at the mention of the move. Ever the sensible one, Emma had early on pointed out that their school would need caretakers living on the grounds, especially if they wanted to accommodate boarding pupils in the future. Not completely devoid of common sense himself, Gustave had naturally agreed that it would have been unresponsible to leave the estate unattended, only to sober up once she had suggested that they should come live in the manor. As both headmasters, teachers and founders, this duty was theirs to take on. The very perspective had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, the acrid burn of unease; it had not just been a matter of giving up on some his independence, although that was not something he had been very keen on. Gustave was simply not ready to leave the flat he had shared with Sophie, a place where the ghost of their past happiness still persisted like the odour of long-withered flowers. Despite his best efforts to find fair arguments to reason with his sister, he had had to surrender to the conclusion that she could hardly shoulder this burden on her own. They had finally compromised that Gustave would stay until January, when Sol would return from his research exchange program in Brazil, then he would return to his little flat and the memories of happier days.
Thankfully their plates arrived on time to offer Gustave a welcome distraction while the topic of the discussion drifted from the practicalities of the move to the forthcoming school start and the new teaching staff, which Sciel would also be a part of as the teacher for elementary school levels.
“I’ve known Alan for a few years now, he’s probably one of the most dedicated teacher I know. I’ve never met anyone as passionate about their subject as him. The pupils will adore him, you did well to hire him, Emma.” Sciel said before taking another mouthful of her croque-monsieur. “Besides, he’s very kind and full of charm, and…I know for a fact that he’s single.” She added with a wink directed to Gustave.
“Please, for the love of God have mercy, Sciel! I really don’t need you to meddle with my dating life, I’m quite happy on my own…”
“Of course you need it! If I’d type “bi-disaster” on Google, the first result to pop out would be a picture of you.”
“That’s rich coming from you!” Gustave scoffed. “Remind me who crushed on Lune for one full year before mustering the courage to ask her out?”
He remembered all too well the many sleepless nights spent helping Sciel unravel her confused tangle of yearning wreathed with fear and doubts, back when they were sharing a flat, a decade ago.
“Ooooh, monsieur Gustave Marcennet, that’s a low blow! You’re not entirely wrong though, except I took a leap of faith.”
Sciel leaned towards Lune to share a quick peck on the lips, a gesture both simple and tender that tugged at something in Gustave’s heart. He tried not to stare at their interlaced fingers as they shared the intimacy of one short knowing look, as though they were the only ones in a wonderous secret. Bitter longing rose nonetheless in Gustave’s throat despite his best efforts not to acknowledge it, he focused his attention instead on the metallic knuckles of his prosthetic hand, a crude mockery of a hand that used to be held too.
“Sciel is not wrong Gustave, though.” Lune said in a gentler tone. “It has been almost two years since…Sophie. You cannot blame us for wishing you to find some happiness too. You deserve it.”
Gustave poked at his half-eaten steak tartare with his fork, not feeling that hungry anymore.
“At least don’t close yourself to the possibility, please?”
“I’ll…try.”
Sciel gave him a sceptical look but elected not to nag him any further; he could tell though that she was only bidding her time; Gustave might be off the hook for the time being, but it would certainly not be the last time he would hear about Alan. The rest of the evening elapsed smoothly: Emma showed them on her phone the latest pictures that Sol had sent her from Brazil, Sciel told them of the latest art exhibition that she had visited. As they were finishing their desserts, Lune suddenly snapped her fingers.
“I almost forgot to tell you about the most ridiculous rumour I’ve heard at work today. I’m sure you do remember my colleague Mathilde.”
“How could we forget her?” Emma whispered with a barely concealed wince.
There was no way that they would erase any time soon the imperishable memory of their only awkward encounter at Sciel and Lune’s house-warming party, Gustave had tried very hard.
“Well, compiling conspiracy theories about the hollow Earth and alien abduction are not her only hobby, she also happens to know everything there is to know about Parisian urban legends. When I mentioned that you two were going to open a school in the abandoned manor on the rue de Passy, she went a bit mental. From what I gathered, it seems that the house has quite the history. It was built by an insanely rich family of the Painter’s Guild, some of Paris’ finest. The whole family perished in a fire that partially destroyed it during the Quarrel of the Pen and the Brush. From then on, the property got sold, bought and sold again, passing from hand to hand. Owners never stayed very long apparently: they seemed to either fall ill, go bankrupt or passed away under mysterious circumstances.”
“That would certainly explain the cheap price of the estate…” Gustave muttered sombrely.
“Of course, speculations went wild, and the manor got the unsavoury reputation of being either cursed, or haunted, if not both.”
The fuzzy hair on Gustave’s neck suddenly stood on end, roused by a shiver that poured ice-cold dread along his spine.
“Stop it, chérie, you’re going to spook them!” Sciel chuckled. “They have worked too hard to get creeped out by a ghost story. Besides, who is going to pay me if the school does not open?”
“Honestly, at this point even if this house turned out to be as bad as the Overlook hotel from the Shining, too bad, I’m moving in!” Emma joked. “I could do without the blood pouring from the lifts, though.”
Gustave only mustered a hollow chuckle. His mind was buzzing with the unspoken argument between his own reason and that dark foreign voice that spoke no words, only sensations: again and again his own common sense rambled, stuttered that he was being silly for giving the slightest sliver of credence to these preposterous rumours. He was a man of science, of logic, and none of this bore any form of logic. Yet, the phantom weight of eyes on the nape of his neck still remained, like the black stain of ink on a blank page.
Once the bill paid, the four of them walked leisurely towards the metro station. Streetlights flooded the walkways with pools of liquid gold under a dark velvety sky. While they were biding each other goodbyes and agreeing to meet on the next morning to help with the move in, Lune suddenly pulled Gustave in a loose embrace that left him stunned.
“Are you alright? You’ve not been quite…yourself tonight.” She whispered only for him to hear, ever the perceptive one.
“It’s nothing, probably stress. I’m fine, I promise.”
Lune’s dark knowing eyes searched his face for the truth; if she found there any hint of what was playing itself behind the mask that Gustave was hiding himself with, she had the tact not to say a word.
“Rest well, then. See you tomorrow.”
Gustave stood for a moment in the circle of light carved in the night by a nearby lamppost, waiting for his friends and his sister to be out of sight, only then did he release the breath he had not realised he had been holding. Only then did Gustave gave himself the freedom to wonder why he had lied to Lune, and most importantly what on earth was wrong with him.
When Sciel parked the rented van in front of Gustave’s building, he was already standing ready on the walkway. Since he was only moving in for a few months, he had only packed the bare minimum: a suitcase filled to the brim, a backpack and a handful of cardboard boxes with some personal belongings. His friend rolled down the window on the driver’s side.
“Cute.” She simply quipped with a smirk, after eyeing him up and down.
Carrying around boxes and furniture called for comfortable outfits, and comfort was what Gustave had aimed for: a faded green t-shirt with denim overalls and a tired pair of once white sneakers. Plain, but functional.
“Stop ogling me, and come help me instead!” Gustave sputtered, a flush creeping to his cheeks to Sciel’s obvious delight.
Having hulled his suitcase and boxes in the back of the van, Gustave hopped in on the passenger side and off they drove in the direction of Emma’s flat. Even in the midst of August, navigating the streets of Paris in a van proved itself to be a test of both patience and restraint, one that Sciel only managed to pass thanks to abundant cussing whispered between gritted teeth.
“Nervous?” she asked suddenly, as they were waiting at a red light.
Only then did Gustave notice that he had been tapping his fingers on his knees and swiftly put his jittery hands to rest, flat on his thighs.
“Sorry, it’s just that…it has been quite a lot lately. Many things are going to change, and I am not sure I’ve readied myself enough for this.”
“Well, maybe some change is exactly what you need, that’s what fresh starts are for, Gustave. Consider this an adventure.”
And quite an adventure it already was: from the moment Sciel and Gustave arrived, the morning blurred into a frenzy of dissembling pieces of furniture, squeezing Lune with as many carboard boxes possible in the tiny building’s lift, rotating Emma’s couch in every possible configuration to make it take the turns of the cramped staircase. The maddening flow of hours only deigned to slow down and grant them some welcome respite once the van was full and Emma’s flat empty. Gustave’s feet were sore, his prosthetic arm was already killing him and it was only midday.
“You guys are aware that we will need to empty the van, right?” he reminded the girls as they were munching on the sandwiches bought at the bakery downstairs.
“Ta gueule.”
The van having only three seats, Gustave was elected to take the metro to the manor and prepare for the girls’ arrival. Part of him had not forgotten what had occurred on the previous evening, that deep irrational part of his brain that ran on instinct rather than logic, nor had it forgotten about Lune’s grim tale of fire and curse. It kept Gustave loitering at the gate of the property, the key already in the lock as he stared at the many eyes of the manor’s façade.
“Get a hold of yourself, Gustave. You’re not a coward.” He muttered to himself as he turned the key.
Once again, cool air welcomed him as he stepped inside the manor, a hot summer breeze poured in from the front door that he left wide open for the girls. With the determination of somebody who has something to prove to himself, Gustave strode through rooms and corridors, pulling curtains and pushing open every window to chase off the persistent chill and the leftover smell of paint. The foyer had only been the tip of the iceberg: the rest of the manor had been just as masterfully renovated. Although he had visited the manor many times before and during the work, Gustave felt like he was rediscovering each and every room. He gazed at everything with renewed amazement: from the library, to the lavish bathrooms, from the music room, to the painting workshop. Gustave explored the several studies and parlours that had been turned into classrooms. The afterimage of the grim mausoleum painted by Lune’s word laid utterly forgotten, like a pentimento, it had been covered by the thrill of what Emma and himself had managed to achieve through sheer power of conviction.
The sensation galvanized Gustave who worked with replenished energy. The girls arrived just as Gustave finished vacuuming the rooms that had been converted into a flat for Emma and himself. Each of them would have their own bedroom with only a shared living room, kitchen and bathroom. It would not allow them much privacy, but the bedrooms were large enough to maintain the illusion of having a space of one’s own.
“It is hard to believe that you are both going to live here! This place is positively surreal.” Lune said as she entered the living room. “I might even be a little jealous.”
“You have only seen the pretty parts. There’s still a lot of work to do before school starts and even after. Plumbing, wiring, painting, the whole shebang.”
“Then Emma can consider herself lucky that her brother is a brilliant and resourceful engineer.”
The afternoon passed by as swiftly as the morning, though with the feeling that the hardest part had been already done. Before they even knew it, the sun had already set and the four of them finally came crashing on Emma’s couch, their limbs more sores than actual flesh. After some rummaging, Gustave had managed to conjure four plates, cutlery and a pot to boil a batch of pasta topped with butter and shredded Emmental –“the truest comfort food” according to Sciel, although “it lacked ketchup”. The flat was a mess of half empties boxes, bubble wrap and piles of things waiting to find their rightful place. Despite the chaos, and the oddity of seeing modern pieces of furniture in such an elegant room, there was already something that felt homely to them sitting cramped on a couch, with plates of pasta on their laps. Gustave could get used to it.
Once their plates cleared and left to soak in the sink, Sciel and Lune declared that they would happily crawl away back home with the promise that they would text them as soon as they would arrive. Once they walked the couple back to the front gate, both Gustave and his sister agreed that it was time to call it a day. The rest could wait a few hours.
Never had Gustave heaved such a sigh of relief as he closed the door of his new bedroom. His back pressed to the wooden panel, Gustave peered over the landscape of shadows drawn by the dim light that filtered through his window. He could make out the outline of his suitcase and the stack of boxes waiting to be opened, a task he was more than eager to postpone until morning. He toed his sneakers off and watched them be swallow for the dark as he kicked them. The wooden floor felt cool under his feet as he stumbled towards the welcoming softness of the new bed he had assembled a handful of hours prior. Hours that felt like as vast as an ocean. Gustave let himself collapse on the mattress. He cared little that he was still fully dressed, or that he was still wearing his prosthetic arm, despite the knowledge that he would certainly regret in the morning. He was more than happy though to let tomorrow-Gustave deal with his bad decisions. For now, he only wanted to let himself drift off to sleep. He had left the window ajar, allowing cool night air to sneak its way in, Gustave felt its soothing breath on his brow. As the quiet hum of the city lulled him to sleep, through the window, the golden silhouette of the Eiffel tower, like an arrow rising to meet the blackness of the night, was painting itself between his half-closed lids.
***
For one eternity he had remained alone. Was there a time when he did not walk into the empty hallways of this house? If it was the case, he had no recollection of it. All he had ever known was contained within these walls, the rest, memories of the world that stretched beyond the confines of this decaying cage of bricks and mortar, of who he used to be, had been long washed away by the flow of time. Forgotten. Just like his own name.
The outer world used to invite itself to this house. It filled it with lights, sounds, voices, laughter, life. He had always remained mostly indifferent to it though, as much as the world had been indifferent to him. But then there had been fear, there had been anger, there had been despair, and life had stopped pouring in. Darkness had reclaimed its dominion over the house, silence had fallen once more over desolate hallways. He had remained. He remained. He would remain. A lonely presence that lingered behind firmly shut doors. Until that day.
That day, life had found its way back within these walls. A woman and a man, so alike that they could only share the same blood. They had walked the empty halls once more. What they had said or done had mattered little to him at the time. Passing visitors were not an unknown occurrence after all. No, what had surprised him was that they came back. Again and again, they had kept coming back, opening wide firmly closed door and shuttered windows. They had beckoned light back in, making his home their home. Only then he had paid attention. The man -Gustave, he had learnt- especially had caught his interest. How could it possibly have been otherwise: he was handsome with his halo of brown curl and dark warm eyes. His gentle face was adorned by a short cropped beard that begged to be stroked. But most of all, what captivated him was his smile. Whenever Gustave earnestly smiled, a rare sight, his whole appearance lit up, sparkles flared in his eyes like flakes of gold. But whenever Gustave thought he was alone, away from prying eyes, the carefully curated varnish cracked to reveal a bone-deep sorrow that would not let go. The first time he had witnessed this pained furrow mare Gustave’s brow, this sad glint in his gaze, he had felt a spark of recognition: he had found a kindred spirit.
An emotion had sprung within him, one he could name despite not remembering having ever felt it: curiosity. Gustave had ignited his curiosity. At first, he had been content to observe him from afar, to follow him whenever he stepped into this house, and as fascination grew, so did his audacity. He dared to draw closer, just close enough to hover in the fringes of Gustave’s perception. It was still too early to be seen, he knew it, and the last thing he wanted was to scare Gustave’s light away. Maybe he had been too bold, maybe like a moth drawn to the flame of a candle, he had been too eager to bask in the warmth, for Gustave finally noticed him. Finally, Gustave turned around to search the house for his presence. This burst of elation intertwined with apprehension that spread across his being, this strangely familiar feeling, he could not yet identify it. His emotions have become more complex as of late, more confusing as he had gained more substance. And now that Gustave was here, asleep under a blanket of shadows, he knew with absolute certainty that he was bound to become again what he used to be. More than a mere shade, an echo. More than the lonely thing that lived in the house.