The Book of Shadows (5 page)

It had grown late; the sun had begun its descent. The clouds ran quick and thin. Striate bands of orange and red spread across the sky.

Fortunately, no one had remarked our long absence. Peronette and I entered C——through separate entrances. Her parting words were these: “I shall ask for you.” And in a shadowed doorway, she, on tiptoe, leaned in to kiss me on the lips; and then she was gone. I stood stunned. It was as though I'd been…as though I'd been beaten. Some months earlier, not wanting to peel, dice, boil, and mash yet another bowl of turnips, I'd stashed them in a cupboard; had Sister Brigid discovered them, I'd have been chastised, sent off to ask forgiveness of the Virgin. But it was the cellarer who found me out, and she went straight to Sister Claire, who deemed my crime worthy of punishment involving my palms and a thin whip carved of birch. Yes, stunned I was by Peronette's kiss, stunned as I'd been beneath that birch rod. And stunned I would be each time she kissed me.

That night I sat alone in the small library above the sisters' chapel, trying to study but unable to concentrate. The wounds to my feet were reminders that the day
had
happened, that I had not descended into a dream world. And Peronette's mysterious good-bye resounded in my head, overwhelmed every word I read.

I was roused by a rap at the library door. One of the sisters—no matter which—came into the library, chided me for “secreting” myself behind a closed door, said she'd searched for me everywhere. Mother Marie-des-Anges wished to see me in her chambers, immediately.

I rose and followed the nun. I was certain Peronette and I had been found out, and that I was headed toward punishment: a month's chores, perhaps two. Always, too, there was the threat of banishment: I could be sent from C——as quietly and unceremoniously as I'd arrived. I was resigned; still, I wished it were not Mother Marie who'd mete out my punishment. Why couldn't it be Sister Claire, the Head, or another nun who meant nothing to me? Not far from Mother Marie's rooms, near our dormitory, with windows giving out on to the yard, my escort gestured that I should go on alone. She handed me her stub of candle, and I proceeded, guided by its weak light.

“Yes, come in,” was the response to my tapping at the door. “Come in, Herculine.”

Mother Marie-des-Anges stood as I entered. She was dressed in her embroidered robe and her hair hung down such as I'd never seen it, beautifully full and freshly brushed. That familiar blue cloud was in the air, quite strong now; a curl of smoke rose from the cigarette at rest in the bowl of a large scallop shell. On the table beside her favored chair was a book that was not the Bible.

She beckoned me to join her at her table; we sat. There were ripened fruits and a wedge of white cheese in a pale porcelain bowl. There were two goblets of a deep red wine. She slid one toward me. “You will share collation with me tonight. Does that suit you?”

As reply I lifted the goblet and drank. Mother Marie stared at me; I stared deep into the wine, and drank till it was gone. Finally:

“Herculine, dear, Christ needs a favor of you.” Pause. “You have met my niece, Peronette?”

I could not respond. Mother Marie poured more wine; she pushed the porcelain bowl toward me. I took another long draught. I nibbled at a sweet, white pear.

“Peronette is joining us at an odd time. I fear she may fall behind when our regular course of study resumes.” The Mother Superior turned her eyes from mine. She fingered a cluster of crimson grapes. “A family situation has occurred, one which could not be helped.” She looked up at me. “What I'm saying is this: she needs a tutor, and she has chosen you.”

I shall ask for you.

Mother Marie waited for me to speak. I could not. Instead, I drank. I must have been smiling, for a red rivulet ran from the corner of my mouth. This, apparently, was all the answer I needed to give, for the Mother Superior smiled herself and said, “It is settled then. I shall set a schedule for you both. You shall begin tomorrow.”

Immediately, I stood to leave.

“Not so fast, dear Herculine,” said she. “I do not intend to have you fall behind in your own studies.” I saw that she worked her rosary, absently, beneath the lip of the table. “Perhaps that fear is unfounded. You are, after all, the finest student we have known here.” At this I hung my head. “In any event, I'll be watching.”

Mother Marie-des-Anges led me to her bookshelves, which I already knew well. She asked me questions about my studies in general, about certain works in particular. Had I made it around to the Aquinas yet? I had indeed. And surely I would set time aside for St. Teresa, if I had not already? I would, yes. I stood impatiently beside her, speaking only as was necessary: I wanted to find Peronette and tell her the good news. But of course, she already knew; after all, she had requested me as her tutor.
Me!

I was shaken from this reverie by Mother Marie. “It is time you started your own library, Herculine.” She gestured grandly to her shelves, which spread over an entire wall. “And the best books are the ones that have been lovingly read. Choose.” I demurred, said I could not accept such generosity. It was insincere politeness; Mother Marie would have none of it: “Nonsense,” said she. “Choose.” She ran her finger along my jaw, tilted my face back at the chin; she looked at me a long moment. “Peronette is very special,” said she. Our eyes locked, and she went on: “But mark my words: it is dangerous to indulge her.” And with that the Mother Superior set to drawing down books and piling them into my arms.

“Let us see…. If you've already read the Aquinas then you should have it, no? A trophy of sorts.” She smiled. “Oh yes, Plutarch. And Petrarch…. Have you read Shakespeare's sonnets? No! Well then,” and she loaded me with the Bard's complete works, quarto-sized and bound in red kid, quoting as she did, “‘Two loves I have of comfort and despair,/Which like two spirits do suggest me still.'” I knew she might have finished the sonnet, but chose not to; a sadness overcame her then, and hastily she drew down the rest of my gifts.
The Lives of the Saints
. Texts in Latin and Greek. Writers I knew and others I didn't. Poets. Obscure theologians like Busenbaum, Ribadeneira and Sánchez. Here was even the latest novel by Mrs. Radcliffe! She stopped, smiling, when I could carry no more; and wordlessly she showed me from her rooms.

Ironic, that I should be given a store of books that were to teach me of the world, of life, when all that would soon transpire at C——would make plain but one overarching lesson:
I knew nothing
. I held to a dream of friendship, as the Faithful hold to the dream of Redemption; but I knew nothing of friendship, nothing of love, certainly nothing of lust. Likewise, I was unacquainted with Evil, then.

P
ERONETTE
,
AS THE
niece of the Mother Superior, the daughter of that woman's beloved, afflicted sister, enjoyed privileges the other girls at C——did not. If this was to be expected, so too was the envy it incited.

Peronette, more accurately, might be said to have
assumed
such privileges; they were not all accorded her by Mother Marie, whose heart beat weakly before her niece. Peronette came to C——quite spoiled. Once arrived, she remained so. Living among girls who sensed this favoritism and some nuns who, one assumes, did sometimes struggle against their vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, all of which Peronette mocked, it would have been wise for Peronette, with her gaily-wrapped boxes arriving almost daily, chock-full of perfumes and candies and clothes, to have shown some discretion. She showed none. These parcels—sent by her father, who thus relieved himself of the duty of visiting his daughter—came from Paris, Vienna, Brussels, London; they came too from smaller cities where a certain craft was practiced perfectly: lengths of lace from Alençon, for example. Peronette would receive these parcels with utter equanimity. Often, I would be asked to open them. And often Peronette would let the contents lie wherever it was we'd laid them bare; and so some wanderer at C——may have come upon pink scallops of soap at the shore, candied fruits strewn through the woods.

Yes, with her wild heart and untamed tongue, it would have been wise for Peronette to have exercised a little discretion, but no…. And the least hint of ill-will or censure simply encouraged her. She would wear a new and blindingly exquisite brooch to mass. She would pull an atomizer from the folds of her dress and spray lavender- or orange-water on a passing nun. And, as she enjoyed the protection of the Mother Superior, no one, not even Sister Claire de Sazilly, who ruled the Upper School with a simple and unwavering will, dared to discipline Peronette.

To the private rooms of Mother Marie, Peronette enjoyed absolute rights of in- and egress. She spent more time there than in the dormitory. Any hour of the day she might slip away to those well-appointed rooms, forbidden to everyone else (I was fortunate, indeed, to have enjoyed library privileges there), and while away the hours; in the heat of the day she would strip down to her “inexpressibles” and take to the cool stone of the windowsill. Meanwhile, everyone else kept to the strict routine at C——, only slightly more relaxed during summer recess.

I cannot say for certain that Mother Marie knew of her niece's behavior. Someone would have had to alert Mother Marie to Peronette's absence from services or class, or some other activity. And Mother Marie, who was the soul of sweetness to me, was feared by her sisters; more accurately, she intimidated them, with her beauty and extravagant ways.

But surely the Mother Superior noticed the dwindling supply of wine in her cellar, the aroma of freshly smoked cigarettes in the still air of her chambers, the missing articles of clothing, et cetera. If she did, she said nothing; and Peronette went undisciplined. This went on through late July and the first weeks of August; and all the while I was Peronette's constant companion—ostensibly, her tutor.

Of course, our tutorials were a sham. “Peronette,” I would say, “your aunt worries that you may fall behind in September, when regular study resumes.”

“September?”
she would adjoin. “God help me…God help us
all
if I'm here come September!”

And though I tried in earnest, for a short while at least, I could not discipline Peronette's mind. Let alone her behavior. Often in the course of a lesson—held outside, weather permitting—it would occur to me that I might address a squirrel or stone with equal effect.

She had no use for history: “the mere exploits of the long dead.” Regarding penmanship: “I never wrote a word
I
could not read.” Mathematics, she said, was for merchants. Greek and Latin hurt her head; and German rendered the tongue obscene. Her written French was passable, almost good; her spoken French was crisp, elegant, and correct, and her voice mellifluous.

The tutoring went on with little progress. Mid-exercise, she'd up and run toward the shore or someplace, anyplace, leaving her books open to the elements. A session in which I held her attention for a half hour was a raging success, after which I too would be tempted to retire for the day. Miraculously, Peronette often performed well on examinations. Perhaps she listened more intently than she let on; perhaps she studied. More likely she cheated. Regardless, I would be quite relieved at these occasional successes, for I feared constantly that I would be summoned yet again by the Mother Superior, who'd relieve me of my charge. This, of course, never happened. Would that it had.

I should say that I
knew
Peronette offended, was disliked and envied. I
knew
she was willful, rude, grossly inconsiderate of others. She had a talent for such. Still, as she seemed to like me, I loved her.

Enfin
, I was helpless before Peronette. I did as I was told. Often, after a day in her company, under her command, I would burn with shame at what I'd done. Never the truest of believers, I would then spend hours in the chapel begging forgiveness, for Peronette as well as myself, for all that we had indulged in. As is always the case, the progression from bad to worse was quick. I too entered Mother Marie's rooms, lounged about there without permission. I too smoked Spanish cigarettes and drank cognac—discovered beneath layers of bed linens, buried deep in a trunk whose lock we broke—until I was light-headed. I too rummaged through the splendid, secular wardrobe Mother Marie kept.

The end began on a beautiful late-summer day. Peronette had been at C——but a few weeks. Bees droned about the convent grounds in pursuit of their queen; so too did the girls move in their constant, ordered allegiance to Sister Claire de Sazilly. The clouds hung low and seemingly motionless in the sky that day, the day I followed Peronette into her aunt's rooms, as I had countless times before. This was the time of year when rain showers come quickly at midday; a quarter hour of rainfall, often less, and all the while the sun continues to shine. Such a storm was expected that day: the heat of the day simply had to break.

Peronette and I had repaired to the Mother Superior's rooms. Such was the routine we'd established—no more than a half hour of study couched in two or more hours of idleness, during which we'd often hie to the Mother Superior's rooms while she, in her office, saw to the secular affairs of the house, such as they were. In recent days, I'd realized that Peronette was bored; it seemed she was begging to be caught, leaving the door to our refuge ajar, wearing the Mother Superior's rings to mass, unmaking her bed…. The games we played in the room had been fun enough for me, and indeed they still were—just being in Peronette's presence was enough for me—but it was the danger of detection that thrilled Peronette. Consequently, she grew ever more bold. I waited, worriedly, for what was next…. And then, that day, as we lay across Mother Marie's bed, sated, smoking, giddy from an imagined excess of liquor, listless in the late-day heat, attendant upon the rain, Peronette had an idea.

“Get up,” said she. “Quickly.”

I jumped to my feet. “What is it? Is someone coming?” I ran about the room fanning away the telltale cloud of blue smoke, throwing back the last of the wine in our glasses…. But I stopped when I saw that Peronette was taking off her clothes.

Her back was toward me. I watched in absolute wonderment. My jaw was slack; so too were my arms at my sides. I had never seen anyone naked before.
Never
. All those years of avoiding the crowded washroom and bathing in the night-stilled kitchen, or in the pantry proper. It was then, at that very moment, that I realized I did not know what a woman looked like. I knew even less of men, of course. And there before me stood a beautiful near-naked woman, for Peronette was no longer a girl.

She stripped down to nothing; she let her simple day uniform fall at her feet and stepped from the gray puddle of wool and tulle. She giggled, amused by whatever idea she had, but she did not speak. I stood staring as she moved to the huge armoire.

“Is the rain falling yet?” Peronette asked. “Look and see.
Go!
” I did not turn from her; I could not. Instead, I looked her over top to toe. It's a wonder I remained upright. I said, “Yes. It is.” It might have been raining holy water and hosts, the pope might have been dancing with the Devil in the garden, I had no idea what the weather was.

Peronette ran to the window. Clearly, her plan, whatever it was, hinged on the weather. “Splendid,” said she. “It's falling fast now.” I watched as she leaned over the casement. I saw her small conical breasts; I marveled at their rosy tips. I drank in the smooth and supple curves that spread down the entire length of her body, from her beautiful brow to her delicate instep.

“What is it?” I managed, my heart skipping like a stone thrown across a still and shallow pond. “What will you do?”

“Just a little fun,” said Peronette, tripping lightly across the room. The armoire to which she returned was so large she could have crawled inside it. Instead, she bent at the waist and riffled through its store. Muffled, her voice came back to me: “This will be
great
fun. Get ready. And watch the rain.”

“I am,” I said. “I will…. But what for?”

Peronette did not respond. I watched as she bent deeper into the armoire. I stood directly behind her. I grew weak,
physically
weak; I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. I was still behind Peronette, but now I saw her from a lower angle, an even more revealing angle. I learned then what I had always, somehow, known: I was different. For as I looked at the naked woman before me, as she bent over, distracted by her plan and the contents of the armoire, I saw the wide curves of her hips, her weighty, shapely buttocks, and…and the darkly furred cleft of her sex, there,
there,
and nestled within the darkness I saw the easy folds of her lips.

But I…I am different. I don't look…My
…I could not think. It was as though the breath had been sucked from my lungs. I began to cry. Tears of confusion. Tears for the kernel of knowledge ripening, ever faster, at the core of that confusion.

And then Peronette turned around to face me. I could not look at her: I was afraid. She held up a dress, not from modesty but rather as an introduction to her plan. “What do you think?” she asked breathlessly. And then she realized I was crying.

She let fall the dress—it was then I saw,
saw
the truth I already knew: just how different I was—and she came to me, knelt before me. “Silly, don't cry. This is all harmless, just a bit of fun.” Her nipples were erect. Her skin was flushed. Her hands on mine were hot.

I was thankful she'd misunderstood my tears.

“And we won't get caught, if that is what's worrying you.” She stood again, picked up the dress, which was in fact one of her aunt's habits—a simple shift of brown wool favored by the sisters in winter—and went to the window. “Splendid! The rain is letting up. Soon they'll venture out for a bit of sun.
Splendid!
”

Still I'd no idea what Peronette's plan was. Neither did I ask. Rather, I watched as the pieces of the puzzle came quickly together.

Peronette dressed in the shift. She took from the wall a large crucifix and threw it on the bed. She powdered her face. A red woolen skirt, drawn from the depths of the armoire, was wrapped around her head: hair, of a sort. And then she handed me her aunt's violin, swathed in blue velvet; she drew it from its snug fit within a specially-carved case, which she then set atop the table in the center of the room. The burnished wood shone; the dried bow was bent.

I protested, said I hadn't the requisite skill, that I knew nothing of the violin.

“All the better,” said she. And here she turned back from the window, where she stood sentinel over the courtyard below. “This is no recital we are preparing for.”

“What is it then?” I asked. “What
are
we preparing for?”

“We are preparing for the arrival of Satan. We are preparing to dance Satan's Dance upon this sill!”

“Peronette, no,” I said. “You mustn't.” I don't know if she heard me; certainly, she did not heed me. She hung out over the casement, gazing three stories down into the courtyard, waiting for the first of the girls to arrive outside. “It's always the youngest ones who scurry out first after the rain,” said she. “The little puddle-hunters.”

I was still stunned by what I'd seen of her…undressed; and, in truth, it did not matter what she had planned. Whatever she did, I would follow. We each of us knew it.

“There!” said Peronette, excitedly; the word came quiet and quick as an exhalation. “They are outside, the first of them….” She smiled broadly at me, and gestured to where I should stand, violin in hand. She scampered up onto the wide sill. She edged out, out…dangerously far. Beyond her I could see the tops of the distant trees; through their thinnest branches, I saw the deep green of the sea marry the summer sky. I hurried to grab a fistful of the shift; I held to it as tightly as I could. I asked her,
begged
her to reconsider. She wheeled around, yanking the fistful of material from me. “Get ready, fool!…
Now stand back!
” Her face was contorted; whatever it was that came over her in that moment masked her beauty. She scared me. I recoiled…. Moments later I stood sawing a dissonant song on that violin; one to which Peronette—with the aspect of a snake charmed from its basket—danced, lasciviously.

“Faster!
Faster!
” she said; and I played on though the dried horsehair of the bow snapped, strand after strand.