Read Online Kaleidoscope by J. Robert Janes - Free Book Online

the hills. Again he had to wonder about her.
    The other pocket held a thin bundle of thousand-franc notes – ten of them, a few fives, one fifty, a handful of change, lipstick, compact, handkerchief, and a beechwood bobbin.
    St-Cyr drew in a breath, his nostrils pinching in thought as he held the bobbin. It was wound with four or five strands of russet wool, the nuances of colour ranging from a rich, dark, earthy shade to that of autumn’s pale whisper among old leaves. There were flecks of sunlight too, that made the wool almost glisten with gold in places.
    He brought the bobbin to his nose and drew in the smell of the wool. Hand-carded and spun. This one used only the stuff of the hills and she dyed it herself. But she was not the wearer of the coat.
    Quickly he ran his hands up under the lapels and when he found the enamelled pin, stopped his heart and listened to the wind outside before removing it. The Cross of Lorraine, the newly taken symbol of the fledgeling Resistance, of those who secretly were for de Gaulle and the Forces of the Free French in London.
    Though he tried, he could not see Madame Anne-Marie Buemondi having been so foolish as to have worn such a thing. And he knew that, for the moment or all time, he could not possibly tell Hermann of it.
    When he came to the mirror, which hung on the wall above the bureau, his troubled mind caused him to pause. The frame was wide and of flaking gilt, the glass rectangular and bevelled, the thing of a size just sufficient for one to view the face and hair perhaps, or the bodice by standing on the tiptoes. In places the silver backing had vanished, leaving triangular slashes; in others, it had attained almost coppery hues. The mirror was obviously something bought in one of the country flea markets. Yes, yes, he said impatiently. So she wanted a little something primitive and simple in her life, and she bought this cottage and the adjoining land as a retreat.
    Caught among the reflections were the window and then … why, yes, the door and the coat.
    And in between, a small throw rug and a rush-backed rocking chair. The rug reminded him of the villa near Chamonix, and he took to staring at the shawl he wore and to fussing with it. Could the weaver have been the same? Ah Mon Dieu , this case. Old wounds that had never closed; new ones rapidly coming on.
    When he eased open one of the top drawers of the bureau, he let out a little cry. Facing him on the neatly folded lingerie of silk and lace, pale blues and creams, pinks and whites, were two masks, the faces done with water-colours. Over the white plaster mould, the artist or artists had placed a pale wash of flesh and then had dabbed or touched in the accents. The eyebrows, the lips – the expressions, ah damn it!
    The twins, he asked, but as young adults? Thin of face but not so thin as Josianne-Michèle, who would have known absolutely that he would have searched and found them.
    That girl … what was she hiding? If she had lied about her relationship to her sister then why, if these were they, had she left them here for him to find?
    Beautifully done. First the object of the artist’s eye, the touch, the Vaseline and afterwards, the carefully applied layers of gauze and thin plaster. The fingers delicately tracing each feature – straws in the nostrils to allow the patient – patient ? why had he said that? – the subject to breathe.
    In orange, in yellow, in red, blue, black and shadings of green from deep to pale, the expression of the one was so stark and filled with dark thoughts, the soul found them difficult to probe. Lust, hatred, vengeance, jealousy – ah, so many tortured emotions.
    The mask on the right was open and kind – vivacious, intelligent, quick-witted, high-spirited, warm and outgoing. No secrets there, the kind heart exposed for all to see and yet … and yet …
    Both of them would have been no more than what? Twenty or twenty-two at the time of