Beneath the Porcelain Mask

14. The Evil-Eyed Chaperone

  "Gabriel was in the stage manager's office. Suddenly the door opened and the Persian entered. You know the Persian has the evil eye----"

~Cécile Jammes. 

Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.

  ~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~  

"Never seek to tell thy love 
Love that never told can be 
For the gentle wind does move 
Silently invisibly."

I sighed in content. I'd read this poem so many times, yet it never ceased to move me so wonderfully. William Blake, you clever man you! I'd scrambled to get my hands on the newest edition of his works last year, and could hardly contain my swoons over the blue and gold cover as I'd paid for it. It had quickly become a prized possession.

I was sitting in Le Café de l'Opéra again, the remnants of my croissant growing colder by the moment. The morning sun lit the little table in golden rays, illuminating my page. I couldn't help but smile, despite my situation. It was a beautiful, late autumn morning, almost November, with crisp, gold, red and brown leaves blowing occasionally in gentle breezes: the perfect goodbye to summer.

Well. Almost perfect. There was only one thing I faulted the morning for: I was sitting in the café alone.

It was Sunday, three days after I'd been dismissed, and Jeremy had gone to Mass. I myself had decided to spend my day of rest reading.

I normally loved being by myself: most of my life had been spent in my own company. So why was it now that I craved the presence of another person? Why Jeremy?

I stared at the poem with intent, trying to distract myself from my own thoughts as the bell over the door rang. I can't look up, I must focus—

"Is this seat free?"

I froze, peering up at the source of the voice. The person smiled, his skin old and wrinkled, covered in dark hair that sloped into a thick beard. Even with the sun backlighting him, I recognised the figure with ease, and my mouth hung open.

"Close your mouth, my friend. It's unseemly for women to imitate fish."

I opened and closed my mouth uselessly, searching for something to say but drawing several blanks. Something small and furry brushed against my legs and hopped onto my table, where it sat beside my plate and studied me with slit, blue eyes.

"The cat is giving me the evil eye," was all I could manage. The man laughed and picked the little thing up. I glanced over my shoulder at Madame Fournier as she cleaned away some plates, at the way her lip curled up at the sight of the cat on my table.

The man took the seat opposite me and set the snooty Siamese cat on his lap. It continued to watch me with an air of superiority.

"This is Ayesha," said the man, fondling her ears as the door bell chimed once more. She closed her eyes as he rubbed her neck and a low purr escaped her throat.

"Ayesha," I repeated. "Life. An interesting choice, Daroga. How did that come about?"

"Because when you spend ten years keeping an eye on Death himself, a change is quite welcome!" he laughed. Ayesha, bored of sitting quietly, climbed out of his lap and back onto the table.

"Monsieur Khan!" Madame Fournier cried behind me. "This is a polite society restaurant, not a farmyard! Please remove the cat at once!"

"Good morning to you too, Madame!" he chuckled, fetching the cat back. She flicked her tea towel at him, trying to be angry for his kitten's capers. "Do you have a cup of tea hiding somewhere for me?"