Yet as Clematis’s account made clear, the lyre had been at the very heart of the first expedition. I recalled the tale of the Archangel Gabriel’s gift of the lyre to the Watchers, mentioned in one of the Valkos’ lectures, but even in that cursory account they had avoided mentioning the significance of the instrument. How they could keep such an important detail a secret filled me with wonder. My frustration only grew when I realized that Gabriella must have read Clematis’s account long before and therefore had been aware of the lyre’s importance. Yet she, like the Valkos, had remained silent on the subject. Why had I been excluded from their confidence? I began to review my time in Montparnasse with suspicion. Clematis had spoken of “an enchanting music that worked upon my senses until I thought I would go mad from bliss,” but what consequences did such celestial music pose? I could not help but wonder why those I had trusted most, those to whom I had given my complete loyalty, had deceived me. If they’d failed to tell me the truth about the lyre, surely there were other pieces of information they’d kept from me as well.
These were the doubts filling my mind when I heard the rumbling of a car below my bedroom window. Drawing aside the curtain, I was astonished to discover that the sky had brightened to a pale gray hue, tinting the street with a hazy presentiment of dawn. The night was gone, and I had not slept at all. But I was not the only one who had endured a sleepless night. Through the murky light, I saw Gabriella emerge from the car, a white Citroën Traction Avant. Although she wore the same dress she had worn in the Athenaeum, its satin still giving off all its liquid luster, Gabriella had changed dramatically in the hours that had passed. Her hair was in disarray, and her shoulders hung heavy with exhaustion. She had removed the black opera gloves, revealing her pale hands. Gabriella turned from the car to the apartment building, as if contemplating what she might do, and then, leaning against the car, buried her head in her arms and began to sob. The car’s driver, a man whose face I could not make out, emerged, and although I could not know his intentions, it appeared to me that he intended to further harm Gabriella.
Despite the anger I had felt toward her, my first instinct was to help my friend. I rushed from the apartment and down the successive flights of stairs, hoping that Gabriella would not leave before I made it to the street. When I arrived at the entrance of our building, however, I saw that I had been wrong. Rather than harm Gabriella, the man had embraced her, holding her in his arms as she cried. I stood at the doorway, watching in confusion. The man stroked her hair with tenderness, speaking to her in what appeared to me to be the manners of a lover, although at fifteen years of age I had never been touched in such a way. Pushing the door open slowly, so that my presence would not be detected, I listened to Gabriella. Through her sobs she repeated, “I can‘t, I can’t, I can’t,” her voice filled with despair. Although I had some idea of what inspired Gabriella’s remorse-perhaps her actions had at last registered upon her conscience-my astonishment was truly great at the words the man spoke. “But you must,” he said, holding her closer. “We have no choice but to continue.”
I recognized the voice. It was then that I saw, in the growing light of dawn, that the man comforting Gabriella was none other than Dr. Raphael Valko. After returning to the apartment, I sat in my room waiting to hear Gabriella’s footsteps upon the stairs. Her keys rattled as she unlocked the door and walked into the hallway. Rather than go to her room, as I would have expected, she went to the kitchen, where a clattering of pans told me that she was making herself coffee. Fighting an urge to join her, I waited in the shadows of my bedroom, listening, as if the noises she made would help me to understand what had happened in the street and what was the nature of her relationship with Dr. Raphael Valko.
Some hours later I knocked upon the door to Dr. Seraphina’s office. It was still early in the morning, not yet seven o’clock, although I knew she would be there working in her usual manner. She sat at her escritoire, her hair tied back in a severe bun, her pen poised above an open notebook as if I had caught her midsentence. Although my visits to her office had become routine-indeed, I had worked upon the vermilion settee each day for many weeks cataloging the Valkos’ papers-my fatigue and anxiety over Clematis’s journal must have been apparent. Dr. Seraphina knew that this was no ordinary visit. She came to the settee in an instant, sat across from me, and demanded to know what had brought me to her at such an early hour.
I placed Dr. Raphael’s translation between us. Startled, Seraphina picked up the pamphlet and turned the thin pages, taking in the words her husband had translated so long before. As she read, I saw-or imagined that I saw-a glimmer of youth and happiness return to her features, as if time peeled away as she turned each page.
Finally Dr. Seraphina said, “My husband discovered the Venerable Clematis’s notebook nearly twenty-five years ago. We were conducting research in Greece, in a small village at the base of the Rhodope mountain chain, a place Raphael had tracked down after coming across a letter from a monk named Deopus. The letter had been written from a mountain village of only a few thousand people, where Clematis died not long after the expedition, and hinted that Deopus had transcribed Clematis’s last account of his expedition. There was only the vaguest promise of discovery in the letter, and yet Raphael believed his intuition and undertook what many believed to be a quixotic mission to Greece. It was a momentous time in his career-in both of our careers, actually. The discovery had tremendous consequences for us, bringing recognition and invitations to speak at every major institute in Europe. The translation cemented his reputation and secured our place here in Paris. I remember how happy he was to come here, how much optimism we possessed.”
Dr. Seraphina stopped suddenly, as if she had said more than she wished. “I am very curious to know where you found this.”
“In the storage chambers below the school,” I replied, without a moment of hesitation. I would not have been able to lie to my teacher even if I wished to do so.
“Our subterranean storage areas are restricted,” Dr. Seraphina said. “The doors are locked. You must have a key to enter.”
“Gabriella showed me how to find the key,” I said. “I returned it to its hiding place in the keystone.”
“Gabriella?” Dr. Seraphina said, astonished. “But how is Gabriella aware of the hiding place?”
“I thought you might know. Or,” I said, measuring my words, anxious not to reveal more than would be prudent, “perhaps Dr. Raphael knows.”
“I certainly do not know, and I am sure my husband knows nothing about it either,” Dr. Seraphina said. “Tell me, Celestine, have you noticed anything strange about Gabriella’s behavior?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning back into the cool silk of the settee, waiting with great anticipation for Dr. Seraphina to help me understand the puzzle Gabriella presented.
“Let me tell you what I have observed,” Dr. Seraphina said, standing and walking to the window, where the pale morning light fell over her. “In the past months, Gabriella has become unrecognizable to me. She has fallen behind in her coursework. Her past two essays were written significantly below her abilities-although she is so advanced that only a teacher who knows her as well as I do would notice. She has been spending quite a lot of time outside the school, especially at night. She has changed her appearance to match that of the girls one sees in the quartier Pigalle. And, perhaps worst of all, she has begun to harm herself.”
Dr. Seraphina turned to me as if expecting me to disagree with her assessment. When I did not, she continued.
“Some weeks ago I watched her burn herself during my husband’s lecture. You know the episode I am referring to. It was the most unsettling experience of my career, and believe me, I have had many. Gabriella brought the flame to her bare wrist, impassive as her skin charred. She knew that I was watching her, and as if to defy me she stared at me, daring me to interrupt the class to save her from herself. There was more than desperation in her behavior, more than the usual childish desire for attention. She had lost control of her actions.”