Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (37 page)

He is in Jean’s room, the gleam of white marble soiled with the reflection of his russet fur, his dirty clothes. He gestures at the painting. “There was no need to send the gendarmes to find me,” he says. “I intended to bring this to you in any case. All you think of me is a work of art, so here, here is your work of art. You may remember me by it.”

“You think this captures your spirit? You think this decoration, this wall hanging, is a replacement for you?” The chamois steps closer, barely glancing at the painting. Niki can see himself reflected in the cold brown eyes, can smell Jean’s disarmingly sweet breath. “You mean to leave me forever, is that it?”

The lost future tugs at Niki, the life of luxury in silk robes and fruit tarts. The coldness in Jean gnaws at his heart. “Y-yes,” he says, but as he is thinking it, he wonders what it is he has to return to. With Henri gone, with Cireil gone, he will be as alone at home as he is while dancing, wherever he is able to find work. Henri would tell him to dance, because that is what he must do, but Niki does not know whether he has the strength. And if he is to sell his body like the shadowy boys by the Seine, then why not simply sell it to Jean?

“Just one more night,” Jean says. “One more night, and I will pay you handsomely. You may leave, and you may return at any time.”

He should not. But who, he asks himself again, will miss him? And the icy eyes of the chamois bore into him. The only times he has seen them warm, relaxed, happy, have been following their nights of intimacy. He would like to see that again. He would like to feel love, and loved, one more time. “Very well,” he says.

The chamois’s smile shows little joy. “Undress,” he says.

Niki removes his clothes, torn between wanting this to end quickly and wanting to do it nicely for the last time. Jean pushes him down and brings the ropes over, and ties his wrists, but this time he does not stop there. He binds Niki’s ankles together as well. And when the fox is on all fours, Jean wraps a rope around his muzzle as well.

“You listen to me,” he hisses into the fox’s ear. “You steal my money, you run away, and then you come back to taunt me with a miserable piece of street art. Did you pay more than a franc for this? Or did you take it from the refuse lying in the street as you walked down from the hill?”

He wanted the painting to be seen by important people. They would have to recognize its talent. He made certain that Henri’s signature was visible. And he wanted Jean to remember him, too, in future days.

Jean loves him in his own twisted way, he knows, otherwise Niki’s leaving would not hurt him so much. But even if Niki’s muzzle were untied, there would be nothing he could say. It will be one night, he tells himself, and then it will be over.

But Jean is determined to take every minute of the night. “You are nothing more than a painting yourself,” he says, talking while he undresses, and then after as well. “You are here at my pleasure and for my pleasure, and I will decide when you come and when you go.”

And it is not pleasant, not at all. Jean is rough, and he makes it last as long as he can. And when he has finished, he does not favor Niki with a smile, does not tell him how lovely he is. Jean simply walks out, leaving Niki tied and bent over the chaise. The fox reaches up with his bound paws to undo the rope around his muzzle, but it is secure and knotted around the back of his head, where he cannot easily reach. No mouse comes to free him this time. No other living soul enters the room at all.

Niki knows Jean’s sitting-room well, the slick white marble floor, the eggshell-white curtains, the marble bust of some long-dead ancestral chamois staring down at him. The polished wooden arm of the chaise digs into his stomach; his nose rests on the reddish satin upholstery because it is an effort to lift his chest. He turns his head from one side to the other, but cannot escape the smell of Jean’s pleasure. Even when he presses his nose into the satin, he smells not the residue of the cleaning, but their previous nights, and Jean’s lovers before him, all imprisoned in this couch as surely as Niki is confined there. He could roll onto the floor, but it is cold and hard, and even with the smells and the ache in his stomach, he prefers the soft couch. He turns to look out the two windows in the opposite wall, where the night outside is so featureless that the windows might be painted black. Niki closes his eyes, but soon opens them again, because he cannot give in to sleep, can do nothing but wait.

Time expands and contracts. Some minutes or hours later, Jean returns. The chamois walks stiffly across the room to Niki, a silver candlestick dangling from one hand. He stands between Niki’s head and the night-black of the windows and taps the candlestick against his leg. “Ah, little streetwalking whore,” he says. “I suppose it is about time I let you go.”

Niki twists his neck to look up. Jean’s face is relaxed, but shows no pleasure, no emotion at all, in fact, except that Niki fancies that a tear gathers in the corner of one large brown eye. He understands what it is the chamois means to do. “Jean—”

“Quiet!” The word echoes against the marble. “You have shamed me, humiliated me!” The candlestick rises, drops back to his leg. “Do you imagine you are of any significance? Do you think anyone will miss you?”

Niki lowers his head. Of course no-one will miss him, not any more. And yet he does not want to leave the world, not like this.

“You are nothing, and still you mean to turn your back on me? No. That is not permitted.” Jean breathes harshly. “You will go when I say you may go.”

He will see Cireil soon, and Henri. He wants to tell them how precious are these moments we have, to warm them how easily we give them up. He keeps his eyes open, he breathes deep breaths, savoring the last few moments of sensation left to him. Even the aches in his muscles, the pain in his lip and his back, these are things to remember and cherish. He drinks in the white of the marble, the red of the satin, the white of Jean’s robe and the tan of his fur; the smell of fox and chamois and sex and oil lamps and the houses outside. In the corner, the fox in the painting begins to rise from the bench he will never leave.

Jean reaches down and brushes his fingers under the fox’s muzzle. His breath smells strongly of wine. “Now, you may go,” he whispers. His other hand brings the candlestick up. It flashes with reflected lamplight as it descends.

Niki is slung across the chamois’s back, being carried through the cool night air with the smell of river in his nose. He is bounced as the chamois rushes down stairs, and he realizes what is going to happen. He tries to make a noise, but it sticks in his throat. He tries to struggle, but Jean cannot feel it with the bouncing; that is what he tells himself.

There is no ceremony, no poetic farewell. Jean reaches the edge of the Seine and then Niki is falling, and he hits the cold water. He makes a splash, struggling, and twists his head frantically to keep his nose in the air. But the water soaks into his fur quickly, and he sinks, breathing in a gulp of water and then another

and then the pressure of the water in his lungs is gone and Sol knows somehow that he is himself again, in the dream. All around him, the world is light green and hazy, as if he is standing in a fog. A wall rises up on his left, and to his right there is a large pillar of thick stone. He reaches out in slow motion and cannot see his paw before him. With effort, he turns. There, on the ground in front of the green-streaked stone pillar, sits a fox.

His fur flows in the air, his bushy tail rippling in waves. He is not sitting, Sol sees now, so much as propped against the stone, knees bent, head lolling to the side. His body, streaked with black strands, is covered with nothing but ropes: around his muzzle, around his wrists, around his feet. His eyes stare ahead of him, just to Sol’s right. They are the dull green of algae.

Niki
, he calls.
Niki!

The fox doesn’t move. Sol makes his way over there, slowly. When he tries to swim using his invisible paws, he moves more quickly.

Niki!

He reaches the fox and stands for a moment or an hour. Then he is reaching down, trying to undo the ropes around the muzzle. Though he cannot see his paws, he pulls on the ropes with the urgency of dreams. They are cold and tight, but they loosen eventually and come away, float to the ground, and vanish. And now, he thinks, something will happen.

He waits. And something does.

The fox’s eyes brighten to a shiny emerald. They shift, they focus on Sol. Niki’s head straightens, his muzzle closes, and his lips stretch back into a smile.

Hello, dorogoï.

Sol reaches for Niki’s wrists, to unbind them. He feels tears as warmth behind his eyes, down through his muzzle, and wonders, how does one cry underwater? 
Why did you show me this?

The fox’s eyes are bright and tender. In the corner of one, flickers of light play off of what might be a tear.
You wanted to see the end.

The ropes around the wrists are tighter, less tractable. Sol works at them without knowing how, just that if he keeps trying, he will undo them. The fox is patient, his eyes gleaming through the water.
Why did…how could he do that?

There are more predators than those of us born with claws and teeth. Jean wanted so badly to be one, and in the end, he was, even though his hunger was not for flesh. Your world is gentler, more forgiving, but I think you know some Jeans in your time as well.

Sol works and works at the knots around the wrists, but they are stubborn in the manner of dreams, unyielding and frustrating.
Is that why you came to help me? Why me?

Niki smiles.
There was love in your heart, and you needed me
.

The ropes around Niki’s wrists resist a moment longer and then give way, in the unknowable manner of dreams.
Come back with me.
The young wolf reaches out a paw, invisible, insubstantial.
You came once to save me. Come and stay.

The fox’s head shakes slowly, side to side.
We are only allowed one chance at living. I have exhausted mine.

To one side, Sol can see the riverbed stretching on and on, pale green into dark green into formless black.
I feel like I’m wasting mine. You have your dance—had your dance. Henri had his art. I have nothing. I have no-one.

Art is not life,
Niki says.
Art enhances life. Love is not life; love enhances life.

Sol bites his lip. It is still tender, the lower lip on that side, even in the dream.
What is life, then?

You are young.
Niki’s smile is kind.
You will have time to discover that for yourself.

The thought of going on alone is daunting, but Sol is at least not bound and dead at the bottom of a river.
I won’t forget you. I’ll make sure people hear your story. I’ll write it down.

The movement of Niki’s tail, a contented back-and-forth, might be simply the currents of the Seine.
If you wish to honor me, then help others as I helped you.

There is one more thing Sol needs to know. He is aware that this is a dream, but he can see Niki so clearly, can see the rough brick of stone behind the fox. He can smell the water all around him and the fox before him, and so he hesitates before asking his last question. The world and the dream wait, but Sol knows he does not have long here. He looks into Niki’s eyes.
All this—is it real?

What is real? Is it what you believe?

It’s…it’s what is true.

Niki reaches out to a point on Sol’s chest.
This,
he says.
This is real. You, your heart, your feelings. Believe in them. Follow them.

The touch dulls the pain of the memories, warms him, brightens the water around him. He reaches out again, and this time the fox lifts his paws and Sol feels them around him. They are cold, but Niki’s love in them is strong and warm. Sol holds him tightly and says,
Thank you, thank you.
And then, half-crying
, I’ll never see you again.

Niki’s eyes blaze emerald above a gentle smile.
Liar
, he says, tenderly
.

Sol’s alarm blared in his ear, shocking him awake. He sat up, rubbing tears from his muzzle. The dampness didn’t surprise him, nor did the chill across his shoulders where Niki’s paws had held them. His sheet had slid down, though, and the fan was blowing across his fur; perhaps that was all.