walk on the beach instead of taking the main road. Always I am drawn to the unrelenting waves, the salty, briny air and the feel of the sand shifting beneath my feet.
Reaching the shore, I stood for some time just looking out on the rough sea and thought about the offer the spirit had made. I was filled with both wonder and dread, curiosity and chagrin. How could I believe such a thing? It was not possible to bring back my daughter. And the price? A piece of poetry? The whole exchange was ludicrous.
As I pondered these thoughts, I became aware of a presence nearby and turned. No one was there.
I looked up at the sky and wondered if Didine was one of the stars peeking through the clouds. Could she be looking down and watching over me at that moment?
I had always believed that if we cannot chart the geography of the heavens, if we cannot ride over heaven’s hills or sail over its seas, then we cannot know for sure who dwells there and how they interact.
But in the last two years, in over a hundred séances, I had been given glimpses of that geography. Hadn’t I?
That was the question on my mind as I walked the beach. After a time, I noticed someone up ahead. At first I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman from that distance. But when I came closer, in the light of the moon I recognized you, the comely servant girl whom my mistress had recently employed. Fantine, you were walking along the shore, staring out at the vast ocean. The sky had cleared and the moon glow shone on your white chemise, making it stand out like a beacon.
When I’d noticed you at her house, Juliette had told me you were another exile from Paris. I’d only seen you two or three times but had been acutely aware of your sadness. You wore it like a frock. It clouded your eyes, turning the blue sky to gray. Even the scent that lingered in a room after you’d left it reminded me of grief. It was the fragrance of flowers past bloom in their death throes.
As I approached, you became aware of me, and when you turned, I thought I saw the silvery track of tears on your cheek.
I was sorry I’d intruded, but it was too late for me to turn back without being rude. “Good evening, Fantine.”
“Monsieur Hugo, good evening.”
In Juliette’s abode, you were demure. Here you seemed less so. In her home you would have lowered your eyes and been slightly embarrassed in my presence. But you were none of these things on the beach. You were forthright, almost defiant. As if I had interrupted you. As if this were your beach and I were trespassing.
I fell into step beside you and must admit was still so absorbed by what had happened in my house that for the first few minutes of our stroll, I paid you little heed.
Lost in thoughts as dark as the sea, I tried to make sense of the evening’s revelations, tumbling the thoughts in my own head. Getting nowhere, I finally felt the need to discuss what had occurred with someone who hadn’t been in my house and exposed to the table tapping.
“Do you believe in spirits?” I asked.
“Do you mean ghosts?”
“Well yes, I suppose so. The spirits of those no longer alive. Do you think they are capable of communicating with us?”
You nodded, and your dark curls dancing on their own endowed the grave question with a certain ironic frivolity. “Oh yes. I’ve often felt my mother’s presence and smelled her perfume in the air when there’s no one nearby. It’s always very comforting.”
“Is she really communicating with you or are you just remembering her vividly? Do you actually believe some shade of her is here, watching over you, visiting you?”
The beach was rocky where we were walking, and as you started to answer, you tripped. I reached out to steady you. Closer, I marveled at your fragrance. The same I’d sniffed in Juliette’s house, but so near now I could smell other subtle scents mixed in with the roses. Night-blooming jasmine, lemon . . . I shut my eyes for a moment, to fix the
Reaching the shore, I stood for some time just looking out on the rough sea and thought about the offer the spirit had made. I was filled with both wonder and dread, curiosity and chagrin. How could I believe such a thing? It was not possible to bring back my daughter. And the price? A piece of poetry? The whole exchange was ludicrous.
As I pondered these thoughts, I became aware of a presence nearby and turned. No one was there.
I looked up at the sky and wondered if Didine was one of the stars peeking through the clouds. Could she be looking down and watching over me at that moment?
I had always believed that if we cannot chart the geography of the heavens, if we cannot ride over heaven’s hills or sail over its seas, then we cannot know for sure who dwells there and how they interact.
But in the last two years, in over a hundred séances, I had been given glimpses of that geography. Hadn’t I?
That was the question on my mind as I walked the beach. After a time, I noticed someone up ahead. At first I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman from that distance. But when I came closer, in the light of the moon I recognized you, the comely servant girl whom my mistress had recently employed. Fantine, you were walking along the shore, staring out at the vast ocean. The sky had cleared and the moon glow shone on your white chemise, making it stand out like a beacon.
When I’d noticed you at her house, Juliette had told me you were another exile from Paris. I’d only seen you two or three times but had been acutely aware of your sadness. You wore it like a frock. It clouded your eyes, turning the blue sky to gray. Even the scent that lingered in a room after you’d left it reminded me of grief. It was the fragrance of flowers past bloom in their death throes.
As I approached, you became aware of me, and when you turned, I thought I saw the silvery track of tears on your cheek.
I was sorry I’d intruded, but it was too late for me to turn back without being rude. “Good evening, Fantine.”
“Monsieur Hugo, good evening.”
In Juliette’s abode, you were demure. Here you seemed less so. In her home you would have lowered your eyes and been slightly embarrassed in my presence. But you were none of these things on the beach. You were forthright, almost defiant. As if I had interrupted you. As if this were your beach and I were trespassing.
I fell into step beside you and must admit was still so absorbed by what had happened in my house that for the first few minutes of our stroll, I paid you little heed.
Lost in thoughts as dark as the sea, I tried to make sense of the evening’s revelations, tumbling the thoughts in my own head. Getting nowhere, I finally felt the need to discuss what had occurred with someone who hadn’t been in my house and exposed to the table tapping.
“Do you believe in spirits?” I asked.
“Do you mean ghosts?”
“Well yes, I suppose so. The spirits of those no longer alive. Do you think they are capable of communicating with us?”
You nodded, and your dark curls dancing on their own endowed the grave question with a certain ironic frivolity. “Oh yes. I’ve often felt my mother’s presence and smelled her perfume in the air when there’s no one nearby. It’s always very comforting.”
“Is she really communicating with you or are you just remembering her vividly? Do you actually believe some shade of her is here, watching over you, visiting you?”
The beach was rocky where we were walking, and as you started to answer, you tripped. I reached out to steady you. Closer, I marveled at your fragrance. The same I’d sniffed in Juliette’s house, but so near now I could smell other subtle scents mixed in with the roses. Night-blooming jasmine, lemon . . . I shut my eyes for a moment, to fix the
Similar Books
