Spectacle(3)
But she didn’t, she couldn’t, because Nathalie was back in the morgue once again. With a gasp she pulled her trembling hand off the glass.
Her eyes stayed on the victim. Nathalie had seen street brawls between men. Once she saw a man grab a woman roughly by the arm, and it bothered her the rest of the night. She’d never, ever seen a man strike a woman. Never mind … this.
Which was what, exactly?
She lifted a shaky hand and touched the glass again. Nothing.
The morgue worker behind the glass clenched the black velvet curtain, ready to draw it the way they did when swapping out the bodies. He exchanged looks with the guard.
Nathalie felt like she’d just been woken from a deep slumber, aware but distant. As if the horror she’d witnessed were both real and not real. Only one of those could be true.
She looked down at her hand. Why am I holding flowers?
As she studied the bouquet, the guard approached her. “Mademoiselle,” he whispered, “would you mind going through that door to the left?”
He pointed to a wooden door beside the viewing pane. What choice did she have but to obey? With a reluctant nod, Nathalie shuffled over to it and waited. She half wondered if the carving of the ugly, snake-haired Medusa in the center of the door would turn her to stone.
“Could you understand what she said?” The words traveled as a whisper. Apprehensive, uneasy. Fear just barely in check.
“No, I wasn’t close enough,” said a hushed voice. “I’ve never seen anything that … eerie. Almost like something from a séance.”
Nathalie, feeling slightly sharper now, turned around to see most everyone in the viewing room gawking at her. The crowd was too thick and the room too dark for her to observe the faces in the back. But she had no doubt they were staring, too.
What did I do? What did they see? The question withered on her tongue as she saw one glance after another dart away. The mother and child behind her in line were gone. Her eyes swept the room. She noticed a trampled yellow flower by the exit, the same kind of bloom that comprised her mystery bouquet.
Nathalie gazed at the crushed flower on the floor as she revisited the last few minutes. She remembered entering the morgue and how the little girl screamed; she recalled being startled and touching the glass. And of course the hallucination, the conscious nightmare, whatever it should be called.
All of that she recalled well. Too well.
Facing the door again, she stroked the flower petals with a quivering thumb. Then why can’t I remember how I got these flowers?
2
Nathalie stared at the door, just above Medusa’s tangle of snakes.
And then one of them hissed at her.
She jumped. Impossible.
Was it? Take what had just happened with the viewing pane. Or hadn’t happened. She didn’t know what to believe. Nathalie reached up to trace a snake and then quickly yanked her hand back. What if touching the door threw her into that—that place again?
She backed up a step, just as someone opened the door.
“Did I startle you? I’m afraid this door sticks in hot weather.” The young morgue worker gestured for her to enter. Up close she could see that he was in his early twenties, stood two or three centimeters shorter than she, and had the most perfect nose she’d ever seen. His light brown hair fell just the right way. He also had a crooked eye tooth, charming in its imperfection. “I see you bought some flowers from Madame Valois?”
She crossed over the threshold, shuddering as she passed Medusa. “I … don’t know…”
He closed the door. “The old woman who sells flowers outside the morgue.”
“I suppose,” said Nathalie. She put her hands in her dress pocket and realized she had fewer coins than before. That must have been it. “I mean, yes.”
“Sorry,” he said. He relaxed into a smile. “How would you know her name? I forget that not everyone nearly lives at this place.”
“Except for the dead,” said Nathalie, finally remembering to smile.
He raised a well-groomed brow. “Rather clever. And speaking of names, you are Mademoiselle…?”
“Baudin. Nathalie Baudin.”
“A pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. He smelled of something fragrant—woodsy with orange blossom, perhaps? “I’m Christophe Gagnon. As a liaison between the morgue and the Préfecture de police, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Follow me, s’il vous pla?t.” His demeanor became more serious with each word.
She shook his hand, silently apologizing for her sweaty palm. “Monsieur Gagnon, I’m—I’m only here to see the displays like everyone else. What would you like to know?”
His only response was to lead her down a winding hall.
She inhaled, relieved the air didn’t smell like rotten meat. The scent was sharp yet not overwhelming, a mixture of faint decomposition and chemicals.
They passed an open door. She glimpsed a young man washing down a bony male corpse and gasped; the worker spotted her and promptly shut the door. As they rounded the corner, she saw a door to the outside propped open. Two men carrying a stretcher checked the angles to their left and right. “Found him on a hotel stoop,” one of the men said as they passed by with a plump, sheet-covered body and entered a room marked “Autopsy.”