Chameleon (9 page)

We departed the Loire Valley the following morning with translations of Helmann’s Nazi–era journals in hand. Sir Walter did not travel with us, promising instead to meet us in Paris. As I read the translated journal, I couldn’t decide which disturbed me more: the experiments Helmann had designed or his musings upon the results. I put the translation down after one quick read–through, but Mickie pored through it again and again, making notes in the margins. What would Sir Walter make of the journal we had stolen from Helga? I itched to know if we had wasted our efforts, but I had no desire to break my word to Will. So far Mickie had always accompanied us when Sir Walter showed up.

We arrived at our Paris hotel in time for an 8:30PM dinner at an
Auvergnois
restaurant where every last student opted for cheesy potatoes, passing on the dish involving intestines. Tomorrow would be our first of four full days in Paris, and Sir Walter said he’d join us, invisibly or solid, for most of our group field trips. Our fourth day, the French Club trip
free day
, he instructed us to reserve for a special day–long outing; his eyes twinkled but he refused to reveal our destination.

At the Hotel Georges IV, I received a closet–sized single room, which suited me fine, but Mickie’s room had been upgraded to a two–room suite.

“Gorgeous!” was how Mickie described the rooms she shared with her brother. “And yours is certainly … cozy,” she said upon greeting me at my door the next morning. “You should come stay with us. Save you from a few bruises. Will can sleep on the couch in the sitting room.”

“I’m sure he’ll thank you for that.”

She pushed the elevator call button. “He suggested it, so we can stay up together for late–nights with Sir Walter. And now that I’ve seen your doll–sized accommodations …” She shook her head. “What part of ‘elbow room’ do the French not get?”

After a hurried breakfast of crusty baguettes and strawberry jam, we stepped outside with our group. Sir Walter stood conversing in French with Madame Evans. A bright sun greeted us as we departed our Latin–Quarter lodgings and trekked to Notre Dame Cathedral. Following a ten minute introduction to the history of the cathedral, Madame Evans released us to explore on our own for an hour.

The sheer, monstrous size of the building overwhelmed us.

“How’d they do this without cranes?” Will asked.

“Impressive, is it not?” replied Sir Walter. “I always enjoy being in the presence of an older
woman
.” He chuckled to himself.

Mickie looked at him blankly and Will interpreted. “Notre Dame means ‘Our Lady,’ Mick. And she’s a couple hundred years older than present company.”

Present Company
directed us to a quiet apse. “Did you find your reading enlightening?”

I nodded my head
yes
.

Mickie’s “Fascinating!” overlapped with Will’s “Creepy.”

Sir Walter continued. “The stories are familiar to me, from conversations with Pfeffer, but they make for disturbing reading, nonetheless.”

“Speaking of disturbing,” Mickie said, “You sent an article on Neuroprine deaths in France. We’ve seen something similar in the U.S.”

Sir Walter listened.

“So, do you have a plan to halt these occurrences?” asked Mickie. “‘Cause that’s pretty much number one on my
to do
list.”

“We fight a desperate battle,” Sir Walter replied. “Allow me to share some of our opponent’s past accomplishments.”

“Here we go with the history,” muttered Mickie.

“You recall the map I sent to you?” asked the French gentleman.

“Sure,” said Will.

Sir Walter asked, “Are you able to recall to mind the lands which were lacking in markings of red?”

Mickie and Will nodded. I couldn’t remember the map like they did.

“The markings indicate concentrations of known Helmann’s carriers. The areas lacking red are areas where Helmann was free to
eliminate
known carriers during the Nazi reign.”

“A genetic purge,” Mickie whispered.

Sir Walter spoke. “Yes.”

“Pfeffer kept us in the dark about
so much,
” Mickie said.

“No doubt he intended to keep you safer, knowing less,” said Sir Walter. “As you can guess, he and I disagreed upon that.” The old man sighed softly.

I used the pause to whisper a question. “Why did Helmann want a purge? Either time?” It was the question of a child who still needed to understand her mother’s death.

“Why, indeed? Can you think of no reason to eliminate such a trait from a population?” Sir Walter’s eyes drifted to the clerestory windows.

“There’s an obvious benefit if you
controlled
those who carry the trait,” said Will. “And if you eliminate those you can’t control, you could have a monopoly on invisibility. Or raise an invisible army.”

“Your supposition is correct. This goal drives my cousin. It has driven him for … let us say, a long while.”

Will shifted on his feet, leaning in and lowering his voice. “So he plans to control anyone who has this ability …”

Sir Walter nodded. “And to reproduce additional
controlled
chameleons by all means available, genetic or conventional.”

Will spoke softly. “So, we know who’s behind the headlines we’ve been following, and we have a good idea of what he hopes to achieve. Is it time to call in Scotland Yard or the French FBI or something? You need us to testify?”

I nodded. “If we go to the media and explain how he operates by
showing what we can do
, the CIA or whoever would know what they’re up against. We take away his secret advantage.”

Sir Walter raised one tremendous eyebrow, glared at me. “No indeed, child. Think it through. Expose yourselves and how long do you think your family members have to live?”

I flushed, my heart skipping beats as I contemplated the fury I’d been ready to unleash upon Dad and Sylvia.

Sir Walter, pulling at the goatee upon his chin, sighed and continued. “You’ve both done well to conceal your true natures and keep yourselves hidden from Helmann. If he knew of you, you would be forced to follow him, or refusing that, he would consume you like the bloated spider he is. He has no tolerance for others like himself over whom he can exert no control.”

“He killed Pfeffer,” Mickie whispered. “Because he couldn’t control him.”

“Precisely,” agreed Sir Walter. “Imagine, if you will, the power and cunning of one who has spent his life, his
considerable
life, studying first–hand within the circles of popes, emperors, and monarchs such as those who created this cathedral.”

The arc of his gesture took in the whole of the impressive structure, and I felt off–kilter, as if by gazing upward, I receded, grew smaller.

“Imagine such a one without a moral compass beyond the need to dominate others; you already know that he has the ability to avoid undesired confinement; imagine such a one possessed of infinite wealth—”

“Stolen, no doubt,” Will murmured.

Sir Walter nodded as he led us back towards the entrance.

“He is protected beyond anything you can imagine by layer upon layer. His ability, he keeps secret from all but his inner circle. You must understand: he terrifies everyone who serves him. He always knows things he shouldn’t know about them; though many of his key employees have never seen him in person, yet he knows them intimately. He overhears conversations that he couldn’t possibly have been party to. He acts on this knowledge just often enough to keep his employees in abject fear of what he might do or say next.”

“He spies on them.” Will’s voice dripped contempt.

“He is rarely solid,” said Sir Walter. “As recently as sixty years ago, he appeared in visible form for an entire day every tenth day. Now, he averages one appearance of three hours only every fifteen and a half days.”

“Twice a month?” Will’s eyes grew large. “He’ll only age three days a year at that rate. For someone who doesn’t bat an eye about killing people, he sure is scared of dying.”

“Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes,” said Mickie. “Pfeffer used to quote that.”

Sir Walter smiled. “John Donne. I admired him.”

“As in, you knew him?” Will asked.

Sir Walter nodded and made to exit, but before leaving the cathedral, he dipped his hand in the basin to cross himself. Mickie followed suit, and Will, whispering to me that it had been awhile, also crossed himself.

I dipped fingers in the shallow bowl, crossing myself for the first time since Mom’s death, and hastily wiped my fingers dry against my jeans. The gesture was hollow: I felt overwhelmed by dark thoughts about Helmann.

Our group re–united outside Notre Dame, and we received a handful of
Métro
tickets for our Paris stay along with our daily five–euro lunch allotment. Then we descended together into the
Métro
, exiting at the Place Charles de Gaulle/Étoiles beside the Arc de Triomphe.

Sir Walter had disappeared at some point, but I’d been pre–occupied with thoughts of Helmann taking over the world, and I’d missed his exit. I recognized an old feeling: the way I could make the outside world muffled and dulled by pulling inside myself. I’d done that for years after losing Mom and Maggie.

Only, I didn’t want to live that way anymore. I grabbed for better memories. Me and Will, pounding the pavement early to beat the triple–digit heat of central California. Eating raspberries with Sylvia. Bear hugs from my dad. I found the part of myself that didn’t want to go back inside the grayed–out world of my childhood.

I found it and I held on,
tight.

Taking slow, deliberate breaths, I forced myself to notice my surroundings as students gawked at the Arc de Triomphe. Burning brakes.
Gauloises
cigarettes. Fresh–baked baguettes. It felt cold. Moisture in the air. A steady breeze. Then a wash of warm and sooty air gusted up from a set of
Métro
stairs.

Someone nudged me. Will. “You kind of leave us back there for awhile?”

I lifted my gaze from the scuffed toes of my boots. “A little.”

His eyes, dark orbs, held mine.

“But I’m back,” I whispered.

“C’mon,” said Will. “Let’s go see the Eiffel Tower.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

Will smiled and brushed fingers across the back of my hand as we crowded down the
Métro
stairs once more.

“Where’s Sir Walter?” I asked amid the clatter of trains and press of bodies.

“Said he’d meet us at the Eiffel Tower,” Mickie replied. “He needed to contact someone about the book.”

Once again, I felt a tickle at the back of my mind.
We’ve got to tell Sir Walter about Helga’s book
.

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

The Experiments conducted by my father during the 1930’s and 1940’s had a brilliant aim: the creation of a loyal army of chameleons. Some may criticize his methods, and whom better to respond to such a criticism than myself?

As one of his more successful experiments, I can attest that neither harm nor cruelty were inflicted needlessly. The strict regime under which I and my siblings were raised has only served to develop in us the ability to transcend ordinary human limitations. We are hindered neither by weakened emotions nor enfeebled bodies. We are the living proof of my father’s genius, should any such proof be deemed necessary.

Some might argue that his methods were crude. Certainly they were at times. It was war time, and in many things my father had to make do with what lay at hand.

But who today could design a more perfect way in which to ensure the indebtedness of one human to another? I still recall from my days of solitary isolation how the man I knew only as Herr Doctor told me I was special. Such words are powerful in a child’s growth. With kind attention and with food, he assured my loyalty. I became indebted and remain to this day indebted to the greatest Man of Science the world has known.

Crude his methods may have been; successful they most certainly were.

Upon exiting the
Métro
, we emerged in the shadow of the iconic Eiffel Tower.

“It’s freaking huge,” said Will.

Beside him, his sister nodded, her mouth falling slightly open.

It was the actual
Tour Eiffel
, just like on the cover of our French book. Our group dispersed—from here we were on our own. We three walked towards the tower, but it was like we never got any closer.

Will grunted. “Food. Smell that? You do the ordering.” Will nudged me to a sidewalk
crêperie
.

He was perfectly capable of ordering by himself. But I thought I knew why he’d asked: he wanted to keep me from pulling inside myself again. Warmth filled my belly.

The warm pancake–y scent of the
crêpes
, combined with cheese and maybe something chocolate, intoxicated us. We completely forgot about the Eiffel Tower.

“I want that.” Will pointed to a
crêpe
cooking on one of two burners, folded in half with loads of melted cheese, sliced mushrooms and chunks of ham.

I summoned my inner French–girl. When our turn came, Will translated for Mickie, probably intending to annoy her and make me laugh at the same time.

“
Bonjour, Monsieur
,” I said.

(“Good day, sir,” Will echoed.)

“
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
,” said the
crêpe
–maker.

(“He told her ‘good day,’” said Will.)

I looked back and caught Mickie rolling her eyes at her brother.

“
Je voudrais une crêpe fromage avec jambon et
… Will—how do you say mushroom?”

“
Champignons
,” chorused Will and the
crêpe
–maker.

“
Oui, s’il vous–plaît
,” I said.

(“She said, she wants mushrooms, cheese and ham,” Will said.)