Chameleon (8 page)

“I’m more interested in what he’s seen in the last seventy years, myself,” said Mickie. “Or the last
decade,
since the human genome was mapped.”

“Yeah,” I said. “No kidding.”

“When’s he meeting us today?” Will asked.

“Given his flair for drama?” Mickie shrugged. “Expect him when we see him.”

Or when we
don’t
see him
, I thought. Aloud I observed, “He’s certainly different from what I expected.”

“Yeah, lots of swagger for such a short little dude.” said Will.

“People used to be smaller,” said Mickie. “I bet Da Vinci’s bed is short.”

“Sir Walter could have
met
Da Vinci, you know?” Will’s eyes took on a faraway, transfixed quality as we approached Leonardo’s last home.

“Will’s biggest hero,” Mickie explained.

We took the tour with our group through Da Vinci’s modest
château
and then found ourselves released with two hours before the bus took us back to the hotel. Most of our group headed for the gift shop and
chocolat–chaud
at the snack bar, but Will wanted to view an exhibit of Leonardo’s inventions more than any of us wanted to drink hot chocolate.

“He had ideas for flying machines, tanks, and all kinds of stuff that no one else tried to make for centuries.” Will’s enthusiasm proved contagious, and we followed him only to find Sir Walter waiting for us in contemplation of a drawing that did, indeed, resemble a tank from modern warfare.

“Ah, bonjour, my friends,” said the French gentleman. “You are enjoying Amboise today?”

“Totally!” said Will.

“Clos–Lucé is a special place. I often spend time here during the slow season. Fewer tourists.” He smiled at us.

“Did you know him? Leonardo?” Will kept his voice low and directed towards our quartet only.

“We met. My cousin befriended him first, however. I can still recall my cousin’s interest in these machines of war.” Sir Walter paused to gesture to a drawing of a gun that could fire multiple times before requiring re–loading. “It took centuries for Girard to find generals and engineers who exploited these possibilities.” The old man sighed heavily. “I should have stopped him then, or at least tried …”

Will spoke softly. “Your cousin was French like you, right?”

“We wondered because the stories seem to be set in Nazi Germany,” I added.

“Girard saw more promise in the German State for his own ambitions of domination. He had long since abandoned any loyalty to
la France
.” Sir Walter looked around. “Shall we remove to where there are fewer ears, yes?” He began walking, beckoning us to follow.

We trekked into the wintry grounds below the
château
, the only ones choosing this route back to the bus.

“The book you so kindly placed in my possession is no work of fiction; it is a journal recording the day–to–day thoughts and discoveries of my cousin Helmann. He has been a keeper of diaries all his life. This
particular
black book is but one of hundreds.”

Will shot me a look that said,
We were right!

Sir Walter continued. “He believes that when, one day, he dominates all of the world, these journals will be invaluable to his biographers.”

Will mimed making himself puke.

“Professor Pfeffer may have given the book to you, my dear,” here he looked at Mickie, “but he always intended it to raise
me
from inaction.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mickie.

As we waited for his response, the old man pressed fingers to the corners of his eyes. Tears?

“I have been a selfish creature. As bad, in my own way, as my cousin. Helmann
acted
according to principles, however diseased. I have rarely been led to action by my own principles. Pfeffer believed that I needed a reminder as to why I should act against my cousin. The experiments recorded in that journal are intended to, how do you say … light a blaze beneath my
derrière
.”

“So, if the man keeping the journal was Helmann,” began Will, “What was up with all the kid–torture? Sam thinks he was trying to create some kind of Special Forces.”

“An astute guess.” Sir Walter nodded at me. “Conditions in Germany during the Second World War allowed Helmann the opportunity to raise from infancy an especially loyal group of followers, some of whom serve him to this day.

“At the war’s end, I rescued Pfeffer from Helmann’s abandoned compound. Pfeffer was a child of ten years. Girard had already taken four of his favorite children to South America once it became clear Germany would lose the war. Of those who remained imprisoned, only Pfeffer and two girls were still in health when I arrived. I placed the girls, who were not chameleons, with kind German families. Pfeffer, I raised myself. It was clear to me even then that he had chosen a different path from my cousin.”

“So Pfeffer
did
grow up with those kids,” Will said. “Like Sam thought.”

“Unbelievable,” said Mickie. “But, wait—Pfeffer wasn’t a chameleon. He would have told me.”

Sir Walter looked thoughtful. “He must have decided it was not in the best interest of your safety to know that of him. Yes, he was a chameleon. But he did not choose to live as one. This was one of our great disagreements. Some thirty years ago, Pfeffer began to take the Neuroprine drug to counteract his abilities.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

Sir Walter continued. “However, he monitored the drug’s effects upon mice so that he would know if one day Girard decided to destroy the gene pool of potential chameleons through the use of a tainted drug.”

“Why wouldn’t Pfeffer want to maintain his ability to ripple?” I asked.

“We argued constantly over his choice to deny his true nature as a chameleon. He told me there was no choice—that for him, the ability was tied to Girard, that is,
Helmann,
and his aims. He chose to live an ordinary lifespan as a
distillation
of his rejection of his father.”

“You just said his
father
.” Mickie’s face turned ashen.

“Ah, yes. But more of that later.” Sir Walter gestured to the clusters of students arriving at the bus.

Mick wasn’t about to quit asking questions. Lowering her voice, she herded us away from the bus. “Okay, listen, Sir Walter. The history lesson was nice and all, but what we’re really here for is to fight Helmann, right? And I for one would like to start as soon as humanly possible.”

Sir Walter regarded her with amusement. “Indeed, I thought you were here,” he gestured towards the students, “to learn about
La Belle France
. Unless your school system provides such opportunities on a regular basis?”

Mickie fumed. “Oh, come on. You know what I mean.
I’m
not here to learn about France.”

“How charmingly
Américaine,
” said Sir Walter, looking anything but charmed.

Mick scowled.

“I shall have completed my translation of the black book by morning,” said the French gentleman in cool tones. “I will provide copies for each of you to examine as you travel tomorrow.”

“My sister meant no disrespect, Sir Walter,” said Will, glancing at his sister like she might contradict him. “It’s just that we’ve come a long ways to meet you, and we were hoping, especially after that video you sent, to do something a little more … you know, badass.”

Sir Walter chuckled and patted Will’s shoulder. “My dear young man. Rest assured the time will come for that. In the meanwhile, are you perhaps familiar with the phrase about the doom awaiting those who do not appreciate
L’Histoire
?”

Will rattled off the familiar quote. “Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. Jorge Santayana.”

“An adequate, if imperfect, rendering of what
Monsieur
Santayana wrote,” said Sir Walter. “My dear children,” (here Mickie bristled like a pinecone,) “Allow me to reassure you that if haste were necessary, we should act swiftly. You must understand that neither Girard nor I regard time in an altogether
normal
fashion. A year, or even ten years, we regard as a tiny nothing.”

“Meanwhile the clock’s ticking for the rest of us,” muttered Mickie.

Sir Walter smiled. “Indeed. Your friends await you even now,” he said, gesturing to the bus.

We climbed aboard, Mick grabbing two seats to herself, Will and I sitting together.

Across the aisle and up a few seats, I noticed Gwyn nodding her head as another student whispered and pointed at me. When the whisperer noticed that I observed her, she stopped mid–sentence and turned her face forward. No longer staring at me, she continued to drop quiet somethings about me into Gwyn’s listening ear. A quiver ran through me—an involuntary shudder as I remembered the silent years when I’d decided I wouldn’t talk to anyone. When they’d made fun of me. But Gwyn didn’t giggle. And she didn’t make faces at me. No, what she did wounded me far more deeply. She ignored me.

I forced myself to pay attention to Will, still flushed with the thrill of having walked where Leonardo Da Vinci once walked. Finally, Will appeared to have talked himself out on the subject and we switched to a discussion of Sir Walter. The chatter of twenty–four students created sufficient white noise, especially when half of them were ear–budded to electronic devices. Among other things, we wondered if we should give the book we’d stolen from Helga to Sir Walter.

“We need to wait for a chance to tell him when my sister’s not in the room,” said Will.

“Right,” I agreed. “And I guess he’s got his hands full with translating Pfeffer’s volume for now. Although, no matter what’s inside it, I don’t think the journal Pfeffer stole is going to be enough to make people turn against Dr. Helmann,” I said. “I mean, the kind of people who would sit through the video presentation we watched without denouncing him for it, I don’t think they’re going to be all that disturbed by what he did to a handful of children in the last century.”

Will nodded. “But Sir Walter’s not stupid; I don’t think those guys at the presentation are the ones he’s planning to persuade.”

“Do you think he’s going to the government?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Will looked behind us at his sister, who was sleeping with ear–plugs. “I looked at the Geneses website back on the hotel computer. Helmann’s name isn’t anywhere to be seen.”

“He ought to be
dead
by now. Plus, it wouldn’t make sense for him to be listed under the name he used during World War Two, would it? The name of a war criminal?”

“Guess not. I found one name I recognized on the Geneses site, though. Our friend
Hans
is listed there.”

I shuddered involuntarily at the mention of my mother’s murderer.

“You okay?” asked Will.

“Um, yeah, I’m just … it’s all so …”

“I know,” said Will, smiling and taking my hand in his.

I looked down at the way our hands fit together.

Perfectly.

Excerpted from My Father’s Brilliant Journey, by Helga Gottlieb

Reflecting back upon an important lesson learned during the siege of Château Rochefort, my father writes:

Du Lac’s soldiers held Waldhart, myself, and Lady de Rochefort, whom they seemed afeared to harm. This fear they overcame when Du Lac himself arrived. Du Lac threatened Waldhart and myself before my Lady; she flinched not, neither did she reveal aught when they began to prick and draw forth her blood.

Helisaba, my little cousin, however, could not watch this unmoved. She came solid from her chameleon–safety. Our enemies did not notice. They merely saw a child appearing seemingly from nowhere, as children do.

Du Lac placed the blade at tiny Helisaba’s neck; still Lady de Rochefort revealed not whether her husband’s men would come by valley or by mountain. I did not, at that time, believe any of us in mortal danger.

In short, I misjudged.

Du Lac changed tactics and released Lisaba, placing the blade at my Lady de Rochefort’s own white neck. My cousin shrieked and could only be calmed by Du Lac insisting he had no wish to kill her lady–mother. Lisaba quieted and Du Lac asked her, upon pain of executing her mother, from whence would her father’s soldiers issue?

Helisaba held her tongue as we all had been taught. Du Lac rose, sighed as one who rises from a good dinner, and swiftly spilled Lady de Rochefort’s lifeblood. Lisaba whitened as though her own lifeblood ebbed with that of her mother. I ran, desperate to shield my little cousin, who fainted into my arms. For my weakness, we paid dearly.

Du Lac, sensing my affection for Helisaba, put the knife to her throat and asked me the question.

“Swear first that you will not harm her,” I demanded.

Behind the soldiers, Waldhart cursed my name, calling all manner of dire blights upon me should I reveal what I knew and upon Du Lac should he harm Lisaba. The soldiers clapped his mouth shut.

“You have my word,” said Du Lac.

I hesitated, uncertain as to the value of the word of a traitor. “Call down Heaven’s curse should you break your word.”

Du Lac laughed softly, straightened, and crossed himself. “May God damn my soul to the everlasting flames of Hell should I break my word and harm this child.” He crossed himself again. “But I swear she dies if you do not speak, boy.”

Helisaba, recovered from her faint, shook her head: No, Girard.

“They come by way of the mountain,” said I.

Du Lac released Lisaba and lifting me by my shoulders, he stared into my eyes. “Swear it by the same oath I invoked.”

This I could not do, for fear of my soul’s well–being. I spoke the truth. “By the valley, then, may God bar me from Heaven should I lie.”

By the frailty of my human heart, I had saved Lisaba. The battle, we lost.

I vowed never again to allow weakness to rule the day.