(no subject)

[jholloway.livejournal.com]

“You have a gift for the mathematics, F--------- my boy, but I hear disturbing things.”

“Disturbing things, father?” Not my father, I hasten to add. I have not had a conversation with my father this long since I was a lad, nor any conversation with him at all since I announced my intention of returning to the embrace of the church. That return, beneficial as it no doubt was to my immortal soul, is what has encumbered me with this additional father, Father Gilhooley. Fate plays cruel tricks.

“You squander your inheritance” – I have not mentioned to the fathers here my separation from our patrimony, which may explain my continued tuition – “in wine-shops with low companions and women of loose morals.”

"I do not feel myself in a position to judge another’s morals, father. Did not our saviour—"

“Don’t talk back to me, boy! You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Yes, father. I am very sorry. I shall try to do better in future.”

The old man sighs. Silver glints on the bristles where he has shaved imperfectly. I do not suppose a celibate has any need to look well, but I still feel one ought to take pride in one’s appearance.

“You may go.”

In contrast to the father’s slovenly appearance, I am sleek as a bridegroom as I go. I collect my stick from beside the door. We may not carry swords, and the streets are safe enough, but it is my intention to frequent a wine-shop with low companions and women of loose morals, and untoward incidents are known to occur in such establishments. Snow is falling, only a little, and I walk as fast as I can along that delicate curve between moving so quickly as to appear ridiculous and allowing the snow to disturb my powder. I have carefully arranged my hair to cover what I fear is an ever-increasing patch of pink on the crown of my head. I fear the wig will soon be a permanent fixture. I am still young, or so I have agreed with myself. It is distressing.

Muddy slush piles in the gutters, and the lights behind the diamond panes of the houses are reminders of the developing cold. I push right to the border of so-fast-as-to-appear-ridiculous as I approach the house for which I am bound. A warming drink and a seat by the fire, or if some lout of a student has taken it, a nice warm bed might suffice, and a wench of similar characteristics …

There is someone standing in the street, no more than our two arm’s reach from me. I do not know how I did not see her. She is standing in the snow and it is falling on her head, shoulders and bosom, but she seems unperturbed. She has no mantle, no companions. She is not a whore; I know this as I look at her.

“Good evening, madame?” I do not know why I inflected that phrase as though it were a question.

“You are Mr F---------.” I do not know why she did not.

“I have that honour. I regret to say that you have the advantage of me.”

“You know the girl Madeleine.”

“Madeleine, Madeleine … I do not believe I am acquainted with a young lady of that name.” I am lying. I know the girl Madeleine.

“You will come with me.”

“Infinitely regret, madame, but I am afraid a prior engagement …”.

There are men at my elbows. I do not know how I did not notice them. I am observant. They have not approached from behind me; they were not there, and now they are. I wonder, for the tenth part of an instant, if I am losing my mind. One of them is carrying a sword; not a gentleman’s accessory, but a dragoon’s longsword, a butchering tool.

“You will come with me.”

When I was a child, my father had a pocketwatch; a genuine Breguet, and the object of much affection. I would take it from its velvet-lined case when I thought he was not looking, and play with it. I loved to see my face, warped and elongated, in the brass case, and to listen to its steady tick.

Even the finest mechanism loses some time in the day and must be wound, and if you have a keen ear, as I did as a child and still do as a man, you can hear the tick slow if you listen long enough. As a child, this distressed me until I learned that it was only the watch that slowed, not time. Time cannot slow.

But it slows now as they take me into the alley, through the door and down the steps into the cellar. The altar is more incongruous than the sword and frightens me more. There are many more of them there; one is dressed in a priest’s garb, but soiled and ragged, a blasphemous parody of religion. I wonder if this is some sectarian hate, but it is not. These are not men. I do not know how I know it.

She tells me my crime, and I am too afraid to be other than numb, although I would weep otherwise, I swear I would. I never meant to do harm. And as she carries out her sentence, time stops. In that instant, I perceive all.

I have a talent for the mathematics.