I took the beret into the next session, not knowing whether I would use it. But the moment she appeared in the depths of the room I whipped it out and waved it as if I were signaling with a dark lantern. Suddenly she stopped and, instinctively, I put the cap away; but when she started up I took it out and signaled her again. When she paused by the edge of the mattress I was afraid and threw the cap at her. It hit her on the chest and landed at her feet. It took her another few seconds to let out a scream. She dropped the candelabrum, which fell with a clatter and went out. Then I heard her body fall with a soft thud, followed by the louder sound of what must have been her head. I stood and reached out as if feeling for one of the glass cases, but just then my light came on and focused on her. She had fallen as if ready to slip into a happy dream, with half-open arms, her head to one side and her face modestly hidden under her waves of hair. I ran my light up and down her body like a thief searching her with a flashlight. I was surprised to find what looked like a large rubber stamp by her feet: it turned out to be my beret. My light not only lit her up but stripped something from her. I was pleased at the thought that the cap lying next to her belonged to me and to no one else. But suddenly my eyes began to see her feet turn a greenish yellow, like my face the night I had seen it in my wardrobe mirror. The color brightened in some parts of the feet and darkened in others, and soon I noticed little white bony shapes that reminded me of the bones of toes. By then horror was spinning in my head like trapped smoke. I ran my light over her body again and it looked changed, completely fleshless. One of her hands had strayed and lay across her groin: it was nothing but bones. I didn’t want to go on looking and I tried to clamp my eyes shut, but they were like two worms turning and twisting in their holes until the light they projected reached her head. She had lost her hair and the bones of her face had the spectral glow of a far-off star seen through a telescope. And then suddenly I heard the butler’s heavy step: he was switching on the lights and babbling frantically. She had recovered her full shape, but I could not bear to look at her. The host burst through a door I hadn’t noticed before and ran to pick up his daughter. He was on his way out with her in his arms when another woman appeared. As they all left together the butler kept shouting:
“It was his fault, it’s that fiendish light in his eyes. I didn’t want to do it, he made me. .”
Alone for a moment, I realized I was in serious trouble. I could have left, but I waited for the host to return. At his heel was the butler who said:
“You still here?”
I began to work on an answer, which would have gone something like this: “I’m not someone to just walk out of a house. Besides, I owe my host an explanation.” But it took me too long — and I considered it beneath my dignity to respond to the butler’s charges.
By then I was facing the host. He had been running his fingers through his hair, frowning as if in deep thought. Now he drew himself up to his full height and, narrowing his eyes, he asked:
“Did my daughter invite you into the room?”
His voice seemed to come out of a second person inside him. I was so startled that all I could say was:
“No, it’s just that. . I’d be in here looking at these objects. . and she’d walk over me. .”
He had opened his mouth to speak but words failed him. Again he ran his fingers through his hair. He seemed to be thinking: “An unforeseen complication.”
The butler was carrying on again about my fiendish light and all the rest of it. I felt nothing in my life would ever make sense to anyone else. I tried to recover my pride and said:
“You’ll never understand, my dear sir. If it makes you feel better, call the police.”
He also stood on his dignity:
“I won’t call the police because you have been my guest. But you have betrayed my trust. I leave it to your honor to make amends.”
At that point I began to think of insults. The first one that came to mind was “hypocrite.” I was looking for something else when one of the glass cases burst open and a mandolin fell out. We all listened attentively to the clang of the box and strings. Then the host turned and headed for his private door. The butler, meantime, had gone to pick up the mandolin. It was a moment before he could bring himself to touch it, as if he thought it might be haunted, although the poor thing looked as dried-out as a dead bird. I turned as well and started across the dining room with ringing steps: it was like walking inside a sound box.
The next several days I was very depressed and lost my job again. One night I tried to hang my glass objects on the wall, but they looked ridiculous. And I was losing my light: I could barely see the back of my hand when I held it up to my eyes.
Except Julia
My last year in school I kept seeing a big curly head leaning back against a green wall. The boy’s black curls — the green was oil paint — weren’t that long, but they had spread like creepers, invading his pale brow, covering his temples and spilling over his ears and down his neck into the collar of his blue velour jacket. He always kept very still and almost never studied or did his homework. Once, when the teacher sent him home and she needed someone to go with him and ask his father to come in for a talk, I stood up and volunteered. She was surprised anyone would take on such an unpleasant task. Then she suspected the truth — that I had a plan to rescue him — and began trying to guess our intentions and impose conditions on us. But the minute we were out the door we headed for the park, swearing we would never go back to school.