Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 33: Rebirth

“She has told me.” It was Ms. Graessli who spoke, or whispered rather, from the chair next to me, where she had suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, for I had not heard her approach. The discretion of the Swiss.

Harriet had gone to bed early, still needing to think things over, she said, and I was having a cup of tea before retiring myself.

“Told you what?” I asked, but as I asked I knew, and I suddenly turned cold through and through.

“About her, and you,” she said. “Her son.”

“Oh dear,” I said. Then, with an urgency that got all of her attention: “You must promise to not mention that to anyone else, ever.”

I don’t think she much cared for my tone of voice, for she replied, “I think that is Ms. Brown’s business, is it not? If she wants to tell.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “You are right, it is. But it is my business too, and I do not want to see her hurt.”

“I do not want to hurt her either, of course not.”

“Then, please,” I said. “Don’t tell anyone else.” Then a thought, “Have you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Then I explained to Ms. Graessli about the myth and what would surely happen to it if Harriet Brown suddenly had a son.

And there were other things too — things I did not explain — like what Dr. Franzen might do if Ms. Brown suddenly became front page news again. Perhaps there would be money to be made by relaxing his professional ethics just a tad.

No, nothing must be said. Not by me, nor by our excellent and well-meaning hostess, nor by Harriet herself.

Ms. Graessli listened intently as I explained why, and, praise the woman, she understood quite well, now that I put it that way. Her lips should be considered sealed, she said, and damned if I didn’t believe her.

The following morning I knocked on Harriet’s door several times before she answered. When she recognized my voice, she opened. She had been sleeping, that was plainly evident, and apparently well at that.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, please.”

“You were asleep.” It was not a question.

“I fell asleep like a log last night, and for the first time in many a year, I fell all the way asleep, through thoughts and dreams and into black arms,” she said. “For the first time in many years I feel calm,” she added.

And then I knew why: she had decided to do it, to kill the myth. To turn poem instead. And I wanted no part of it. Partly for her sake, but also for mine.

“You told Ms. Graessli,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No, not yet. But I am writing a letter.”

“Harriet, please, don’t do this.”

“Nachiketa. For the first time in years, I tell you, I have slept well. I feel calm now. There is nothing left to protect. I can let go of it all. Of all my faces.”

She smiled, like a little girl: genuinely happy.

“I know, Harriet. I know. I can see what you have decided. It is the gallant, and perhaps even the right thing to do. But let me say this: I want nothing to do with it. I want no fame. I don’t want to live a life like yours, hounded by cameras and reporters. I want to live my life in peace, unknown. I don’t want to be your son, officially.”

“But it is the right thing to do, Nachiketa, it feels right. The myth is just so much air. Even the necklace agrees.”

“Agrees?”

“That’s how it feels,” she said. “Finally, it seems to like me, it feels like mine. Finally, as if it were meant for me and will never leave me again.”

“You are willing to kill the myth then?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes,” she said. “I am willing to kill it. It will make me a person. It will make me a poem.”

“Then,” I said, and with conviction, “if you are willing to do this, you have already done it. You have become a poem. There is no need to kill it any further.”

She looked at me with suddenly awake, clear, and understanding eyes. “My God,” she said. “You are right.”

And indeed, the necklace agreed.

© Wolfstuff