The Mad and the Bad

6

Once the driver had left, Julie settled in. The closets were far too large for the girl’s few possessions, but when she opened them she found that they were already half full. There were clothes on hangers, others folded on shelves. Julie took a rapid inventory. The things were new and in her size. Looking around for a mirror, she discovered the bathroom, which was through an almost invisible door near the Pollock. Like the bedroom it was fully supplied: there was soap, a horsehair glove, toothpaste (three kinds), bath salts, etc. Even a leg-shaving kit. Julie clenched her teeth in exasperation.

There was a large mirror on the bathroom wall and the girl looked at herself in it. She tried on various outfits that appealed to her. She also looked at herself naked and did not like what she saw. She found herself boyish, built like a horse, her breasts too flat, her shoulders too muscular, her hips too narrow, and her waist not narrow enough. Her very dark hair, shoulder length, carefully done, and artificially curled at the ends, looked to her like a wig. In short, she thought she looked like a post-op transsexual.

She did not dare wear any of the new clothes, even though some of them were to her liking despite herself. She went and opened her suitcase and slipped into an out-of-fashion little black dress. Then she put all her own things away. Some of the clothes were five years old. She had no jewelry, not even costume jewelry. A toiletry bag went onto a glass shelf over the sink. A medicine bag was next: She looked in her striped Kelton and decided it was time for a Tofranil. She washed one down with a little scotch. Last, she put away her books-a few crime novels, some cheap editions of works by Freud, and a set of small English guides to common birds, wildflowers, and the like.

While arranging her effects, Julie found that next to the built-in record player were a good many LPs. Mozart, Bartok, New Orleans jazz. She turned the system’s radio on. She went over to the window, had difficulty figuring out how to operate the pivot, but eventually succeeded and leant her elbows on the sill and surveyed Rue de Long-champ. The sidewalks exuded peace and affluence. Behind her the radio chattered. Claude Francois emoted vociferously. Then, to a violin accompaniment, a female voice sang the praises, in succession, of a vermifugal drug, rain tires, and a men’s magazine. Julie went and turned the radio off and the record player on and played “King Porter Stomp.”

Returning to the window, she got a shock. The evening now beginning was languid and hot. In the half darkness she thought she glimpsed a massive figure wearing a white raincoat with epaulettes. She leant out farther for a better view. “King Porter Stomp” had brought tears to her eyes. By the time she wiped them away, the figure had disappeared. Or else had been nothing more than an illusion, a wraith.

A knock came at her door and Julie flinched. She went and opened the door. Hartog came in. His smile resembled the coin slot of a parking meter. He was wearing a white crewneck sweater beneath which the slight bulge of a bandage could be seen.

“You’re up and about!” exclaimed Julie.

“Why not?”

“What about your ribs?”

“Two are cracked. I’m bandaged tightly. Don’t you worry. Dédé has got you settled, I see. I came to make sure that all was well. And to tell you that we’ll be eating dinner in a quarter of an hour. Ordinarily, you’ll be eating separately with Peter, but on this first evening I wanted to chat with you a little. Come on down and have something to drink.”

The living room on the third floor where they were soon ensconced was dotted with enormous brown leather armchairs. Julie accepted another glass.

“You must be concerned, I take it, to know why that savage attacked me earlier?”

“No. André explained things to me.”

“I see. Fuentès is a bitter man-a failure. But I hesitate to set the police on him. Are your teeth chattering?”

“I am sort of allergic to the word p. . p. .” Julie leant forward. “Excuse me,” she went on. “I’m allergic to the word ‘police.’ ”

“How come? A trauma?”

“I don’t know. When I was six, the farmer’s wife I’d been placed with had me locked up for an hour in the main police station to give me a healthy fear of authority. That’s the only thing I have in common with Alfred Hitchcock. Afterwards I went into convulsions.”

“I know that, of course. I’ve read your records.”

Silence.

“All right then,” said Hartog. “To get back to Fuentès, I am reluctant to take action. After all, he’s a childhood friend. We go back to the hardscrabble days. That makes for a bond. And, I have to say, he fascinates me.”

The man gave a little laugh.

“That’s only human, isn’t it?” said Julie. “He is what you almost became. A failed architect.”

Hartog’s left shoulder jumped nervously. The redhead snickered again.

“Yes, okay, but he’s not an architect anymore. He despises architecture. He works as a foreman, as a manual laborer…. We no longer know where he lives.”

“A few minutes ago I thought I saw him down in the street.”

“Quite possibly. He’s on the prowl.”

“How reassuring!”

Hartog laughed-a different laugh this time, more relaxed-and offered Julie a Gitane, which he lit for her with a large jade desktop lighter. A nude woman in gold was inlaid in the stone and the tips of her breasts were two tiny rubies. The redhead got up.

“Let me show you Peter. The cook has given him his dinner. You can try and put him to bed.”

Julie put her glass down and followed him. The elevator took them to the top of the building.

“André explained to me how you employ only handicapped people,” said Julie. “So I understand better now.”

“What do you understand better?”

“Why you hired me.”

“You-you are different.”

“How so?”

“You need love,” said Hartog. “Like Peter.”

The elevator stopped. The pair walked down a thickly carpeted, gloomy passage. A grayish light emanated from an open door. Peter was watching television.

The Hartog heir must have been six or seven years old. He was redheaded and freckled like his uncle, his body plump and soft. He was transfixed by the television set, which was broadcasting a report on famine in Asia.

“Go right ahead,” said Hartog. “He knows that you have arrived, that you are replacing Marcelle.”

Julie entered the room.

“I am Julie.”

Peter looked her over then turned back to the screen.

“Put him to bed,” said Hartog.

Julie moved farther in.

“Come on now,” she said in a tone that came out wrong, “it’s time to go beddy-byes.”

Peter was in red flannel pajamas. Julie took his hand. He withdrew it violently. Julie took it once more.

“Come on, come on.”

Peter went limp.

“Come on now, get up!”

Peter stayed limp. Pulling him by the arm, she dragged the boy along. He let himself be dragged. With his other hand, which was trailing along the floor, he grabbed a wooden dog.

“Come on, Peter,” said Julie. “Stand up!”

The boy came to his feet. His free arm described a quadrant in the air and brought the wooden dog down on the bridge of Julie’s nose. The blow made a dull sound. The girl’s eyes filled with tears. She let go of the little boy and staggered. She held both hands to her nose. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Peter, suddenly panic-stricken, threw his arms around Julie’s waist and began kissing her side noisily, desperately. He seized her hand and kissed that. He said not a word.

“It’s okay,” said Julie.

Her voice was a snuffle; her nostrils were clogged with blood. She contemplated Peter. In this house of defectives, she was almost surprised that he did not have webbed feet.

“You hurt me,” she said. “Really hurt me. But let’s start over. I want to be your friend. Tomorrow we’ll get to know each other. Right now it’s time for little boys to go beddy-bye. Agreed?”

“What about my TV?”

“Enough with the TV! It’s time to sleep. No more TV!”

Peter grabbed the wooden dog and hurled it into the television. The cathode-ray tube imploded. Shards of hot glass, valves, transistors, and scraps of metal and plastic sprayed noisily in all directions. The tuner ricocheted off the wall.

“Kaya!” yelled Peter at the top of his lungs.

Julie let him have a stiff-armed, resounding slap across the face. The boy was flung against the wall. He rebounded, regained his balance, and stood, as it were, to attention, fists clenched and eyes closed. His eyelids trembled. Julie was horrified at having struck him so hard. She shot a sideways glance at Hartog, who was crossing the room to unplug the demolished television set. The redhead was unperturbed.

“Okay,” said Julie to Peter. “I hit you. You hit me first. We’ll start from scratch again tomorrow. Agreed?”

“Agreed, agreed, agreed, agreed!” cried Peter. “Stop asking me if I agree!”

He climbed into his bed and buried himself under the covers. Hartog put a hand on Julie’s shoulder.

“Come and have dinner.”