Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (20 page)

You may criticize many things about my predilection, father, and many of them would be true. But for all of those, there is one point which you may not challenge; namely, that I have had a far wider experience of partners, and by that I do not mean to imply some crude tally of marks in a ledger. I mean that as a young buck, when you attended balls and soirees and searched through the forest of high society for companion, your choices were limited to a small segment of the population. Marriages are arranged, yes, but even when you seek only a dalliance, a consort for a short span of mutually enjoyable evenings, you cannot pick and choose. Take Minon, for example. His father found a lady squirrel for him to marry, but in the years before that marriage, when he was still making his desperate attempts to be accepted by our peers, he was never successful in his courtships of any but mice, rats, and, once, a shrew whom he insisted had a lovely personality. He walked with me among the chamois, the stately Rhonese elk and Anglic red deer, and none of them gave him so much as a second glance. Just as I, father, walked among the vixens and the wolves, the exotic lions and leopards, and even the less haughty weasels and stoats. They happily shared my conversation, at which I am somewhat more gifted than the unfortunate Minon, but even that facility of manner would not have been enough to persuade any of those lovely ladies to spend an hour alone with me, let alone an entire evening.

And yet, for as small a sum as you might spend at one of our second-best restaurants, I was blessed again with the company of a fox as lovely as any of those vixens, at my beck and call for the entire night. He was quite patient with me, that night; I was so eager to show him off to Bertrand that I fear I became quite over-excited with him. His quiet dignity in the face of my enthusiastic plans only set my resolve that he would be my consort for the night of the ball.

He had asked if he might go, and I prevented him, but had not told him my plans. While I made my ablutions, he complimented my chambers, my taste in decorations and artwork. Of course, father, my tastes in artwork had their roots in my upbringing, from the playful murals in my nursery (I still recall the bright red sunset and the design on the shields of the chamois warriors) to the paintings I grew to love and appreciate in our salon as I myself grew. I would not have developed the discerning eye I now possess were it not for your guidance, both in instruction and by example.

I believe I have made you proud in my artistic taste (if nothing else) and created of my own chambers a monument to the finest artistic styles and movements of our time, and so I hope you will trust me when I tell you that even
déshabillé
(perhaps especially so; forgive me), Niki himself shone out among all the paintings I had collected. He kept his tail not only elegantly brushed and clean, but always at a flattering curl against his body, and I swear that Renoir himself, did you place him in my chambers and provide him with a palette as wide as the Seine, could not have captured the delicate and natural beauty that sat on my
chaise-longue
.

And yet, the fox seemed unaware of his own beauty, the power he possessed over me. He smiled when I paid him compliments, he submitted willingly to my pleasure, and yet I could see that he felt that it was all a charade, a play that was being put on for the benefit of some unknown audience. I hoped that my proposition would convince him, that in bringing out the dress I had bought, showing him the value I placed on his presence at my side, that then perhaps, finally, he should awake to the possibilities that stretched between us. I have told you that I saw a future, and I firmly believe that the failure to find that path rests with me, that if only I had found the right words, the right gifts, our fates might have ended differently.

As it happened, Niki’s reaction to the dress was wholly unexpected. He told me politely that it was lovely and said he hoped I would not be offended if he said that he grew quite tired of passing for a female on five nights a week, and had little wish to assume the guise for a sixth. I assured him that at the Justines’ ball, there would be nobody reaching under his skirt, that the only eyes upon him would be respectful and admiring, that he would be as safe as a painting under glass.

Still he demurred. I could not force any reason out of him other than that he would feel ill at ease, out of place in such a world. Over and over I assured him that I would be his guide, that my arm would never leave his side. I showed him the elegance of the dress and how beautifully it set off his fur; I brought him all the perfumes at my disposal with which he could mask his barely masculine scent; I pleaded with him to believe that the evening would not only pass without the kind of incident he feared, but that it would be possibly the most enjoyable evening he had passed in his life.

(He did not speak much of his early life, father, but a perceptive chamois such as you or I can tell from the bearing of a person, from his naïveté in matters of society and the wideness of his eyes at the fine carpets and polished marble of my chambers, from the respectful cant of his ears even when unnecessary, what experiences he is accustomed to having. Believe me when I tell you that Niki had never been to an occasion even as elegant as a dinner with Mme. Beaumarchais, much less the Justines’ ball.)

I resorted at last to one of the basest temptations I could muster. Niki had not spoken of any specific friends of his, but his words on the general poverty and squalor that dominated the neighborhood had not escaped my notice. If he would not seek out my company for its own sake, then I could still tempt him with lucre. If he did not wish it for his own sake, then, I cajoled, think of the good he could do for his less fortunate friends. If he did not wish to profit from the gifts nature had bestowed upon him, at least he could render them useful for his friends.

He seemed unable to decouple the idea that he would dress as a female from the prospect of dancing—not dancing with me, as would of course be expected at a ball, but I believe he thought he would be expected to perform. It took me well over an hour to convince him to agree, and then only by inviting him to attend a dinner the following night, an event with fewer expectations and fewer attendees, so that he could feel more certain of himself.

Yes, father, I hope that you will now have a clearer understanding of why I asked Niki to accompany me to M. X—‘s dinner. I think you will agree that no lasting harm to your business dealings came of that impulsive act, despite your harsh accusations afterwards. In fact, Mme. X— and Niki were engaged in conversation for most of the evening, and she complimented me on my way out for my choice in such an attractive and well-mannered consort.

Niki and I celebrated our new agreement in the short time we had before the dawn brought our tryst to an end. Then he had to return to his life in Montmartre, but I swore it would soon not be so.

He can still feel its confines, the starched monstrosity of taffeta and frills that Jean claimed had belonged to some female relative. More likely, Niki thinks, it was a drunkenly impulsive gift for some unfortunate female he was courting that had been roundly refused, and many months later, he, poor wretch, is the one forced to bear the burden of the chamois’s inebriated lack of taste. And yet, still, Jean’s delight at seeing him in the dress softens the humiliation. It is even enough to make Niki’s smile not altogether false. And Jean repeatedly insists that the unbearably gaudy affair Niki will wear two nights hence is far more comfortable, that it makes less noise at the slightest movements, that it does not smell of must and mildew beneath the expensive perfume.

The food at the dinner was exquisite and rich, sauces and fresh baguettes and roasted fowl that fell off the bone; butter and honey and small, soft rolls; piles of vegetables whose green skin and scents burst forth amid the browns of the bread and fowl. Still, Niki had difficulty eating too much of any one thing. He has subsisted on small, plain fare for years, and this embarrassment of riches, no matter how it tantalized and delighted his nose, did not agree with his stomach or his mind. He twice stopped himself from asking for a small basket of the rolls, or a small jar of the honey, to take back with him.

Now, though he still feels the weight of the food in his stomach, he wishes he had asked. He is coming back to the room with nothing but the promise of payment, no token of affection nor souvenir to share the life of Jean and his family with Henri or Cireil. The sun creeps over the shingles atop the houses on Niki’s street as he passes the bakery and lifts his nose to the smell of bread. He has left Henri money, and although he knows there is little chance the rat has bought any bread himself, Niki will wait to be sure before spending any more money.

Many familiar scents meet Niki’s nose outside the small house where many of the dancers live with artists and musicians, and one familiar muzzle, coming along the street from the opposite direction: the ermine. She apprises Niki as they stop facing each other. “And where have you been spending your free night, little cu-cu? Off with your chamois patron?”

Niki lowers his head and tries to walk past. But the ermine stops him, her dark eyes intent on his muzzle. “Your lip is torn.”

“I’ll have it seen to before tonight.”

“No plasters.” The ermine releases him. “Your boy plays rough, does he?”

Jean’s fingers clenched around his muzzle, holding it shut; Niki’s lower lip caught between his long canine teeth. His paws, tied, unable to move. “I bit it. By accident.”

“Ha.” She laughs. “The swelling will go down. It always does, petit. And then the cut will heal, in time.”

“Already I barely feel it.” Niki focuses on the smile he remembers from Jean, after, and the pain does indeed lessen.

The ermine smirks. “Do not fret. Most of the girls will not get two nights from the same gentleman.”

“This was my third.” Niki stands straighter. “He is taking me to a ball in two nights.”

“You are working in two nights.” The ermine’s eyes narrow.

Niki shakes his head. “After the ball, he wants me to stay with him.”

“Of course he says that.” But the ermine’s pure white fur might be turning a light shade of green in the reflected light from the limestone buildings. “If you leave the Moulin, M. Oller will not take you back.”

This might be true or it might not; some girls have left and returned, but there are whispers of what they have had to do to be allowed to return, and Niki is not certain that he has anything to offer that M. Oller would want. “I will have no need to return,” he says.

“And we will be better off. Perhaps the deviants will stop frequenting our cabaret, stop bothering us with their disgusting demands.” The ermine turns on her heel and marches away.

Niki watches her go, the sunlight tinting her back, her feet loud on the paving stones. The quarter is just waking up now, the smells of people joining the aroma of bread through the damp morning air. He lingers, closing his eyes and inhaling. The smells of the quarter surround him, infuse him, the honest scents of simple food and paint, of wood and the musk of the inhabitants. This is his world, and yet, how can he turn his tail to Jean’s world, with its rich food and rich people, with its carpets and polished marble and money shared as easily as fleas?

He mounts the stairs slowly to his room, through the scents of his neighbors and their debris. The door creaks as it opens. He calls a cautious, “Allo?”

There is no response. Henri lies curled up on half the bed, his eyes closed and his head resting near the open window. Niki closes the door behind him, at least, as well as the ancient door will fit into the warped frame. Henri does not wake.

The morning sun is kind to the paintings. Looking down on their creator, they shimmer and breathe, glowing with warmth. Niki takes a moment to bask in their glow, letting their shapes and hues wash over him. He pads slowly across the room to the bed and sits on the other half, drawing his knees up to his slender muzzle as he removes the ribbons from his ears. He clasps his paws around his shins and lets his tail swing free behind the bed, looking over at the easel. The reclining female mouse, fully painted, smiles back. Around her, a haze of bright autumn reds and yellows swirl in large brushstrokes, but Henri has described with charcoal lines where he intends to finish the work, add more definite outlines of leaves. Niki feels that the outlines are perhaps more beautiful than the finished work, but he is not the artist.

The other portrait, the one Niki has not seen, is propped against the wall. The stained cloth over the canvas has slipped, exposing one corner. Tempting, but he is tired from his long night, and he respects Henri too much. When he leans against the wall, he can see out the window, past the shingled rooftops of Montmartre to the gleaming spires of the palace, to the center of the city and the ancient majesty of Notre Dame and, perhaps, the house from which he has just walked this past night, where Jean lies asleep in his enormous bed, sated amidst his ropes and his oils and the smell of fox. Niki’s eyelids, heavy, shutter his eyes against the day, and he, too, sleeps.

When he wakes, Henri is seated at his easel, and the light is muted, the sleepy glow of afternoon. Niki watches the brush dance across the canvas, dip to the palette and back to the canvas, leaving traces behind it in brilliant crimson and gold. The oily smell of the paint fills the room. He rubs sleep from his eyes and cannot restrain a yawn.

“Awake from your revels,” Henri says without breaking a stroke. “I would say it is nearly time for you to report to your drudgery at the cabaret. If, that is, your
cher chamois
, your
cherois,
has not yet liberated you from the shackles that bind you to this dismal life.”