Another Faust (34 page)

After the tournament, Bicé started to watch Christian more carefully. She knew what he had done to Connor. She knew he felt guilty about it. For some reason, she felt responsible toward him. She noticed that Connor wasn’t himself at school. He’d started to skip classes and (according to Christian) even a few practices. One day at lunch, Bicé tried to tell him that no one else cared that he had lost the golf tournament, but Connor didn’t see things the same way as everyone else. His life was all about sports, and he just thought Bicé was being weird again. Thankfully, Christian had found plenty of friends among his admirers. Even though Bicé herself didn’t have any friends, this fact made her happy. Still, she knew that every time Connor missed a practice or bolted for the door at the end of the day, Christian felt a pang of guilt. Christian didn’t linger long after school either. Like Connor, he preferred to be alone. Unlike Connor, Christian had something to rush home to. He spent a lot of time in the chamber over the next few weeks. He said it seemed right that it made him feel like he was lying in a coffin. He said that it felt like an atonement. Bicé tried her best to shake him out of it. But what could she do? The coffin made her nervous — the way he would lie there and pretend that he was dead and free from the guilt of what he’d done, of what he would do again.

Sometime in the middle of the week, Bicé went with Valentin and Belle to watch Christian’s swim meet. On the way over, they were discussing Victoria’s latest excuse for not joining them when Bicé noticed that Christian hadn’t said anything since they left the house. “What’s wrong?” she said. “You worried you’ll get beaten?”

Christian gave a small, unconvincing laugh. “I don’t want to do it.”

“I know,” said Bicé. She thought about all the times Christian had been forced to steal, about the guilt he felt after each slip. But then had he always felt this way? She remembered a time when he didn’t feel so guilty. When he stole with abandon and laughed like a carefree kid. Something didn’t feel right. “Remember that time when we were eight . . . or maybe seven . . . and we were playing in the park with the other kids?” Christian nodded.

Bicé’s eyes darted toward Valentin and Belle. Valentin coughed. Neither of them said anything, but they looked more than uncomfortable.

Bicé turned to Christian again. “Remember how you stole from them like ten times in one game? You did it every time they tried to play with us.”

“Yeah.” Christian laughed. “I remember.”

“Why was it so easy then?” asked Bicé.

“What do you mean?” Christian was suddenly alert.

“I mean, why were you so happy stealing then, and now it’s so hard? What’s changed?”

Bicé glanced at Valentin and Belle again. Their heads were down.

“I don’t know.” Christian shrugged. “I’m older now.”

“No, that’s not it. It just doesn’t make sense. There’s so much that doesn’t make sense.”

Finally, Valentin spoke up. “Bicé, Christian has enough to worry about,” he said as he pulled her aside. Bicé felt Valentin’s tight, unsteady grip and looked up into his eyes, glazed as usual, pupils dilated. He had obviously been in that room again — his gift from Madame Vileroy. Bicé worried about the room. Valentin had told her that it gave him power beyond imagination and that he was absolutely intoxicated by it. She wasn’t allowed to go in, but she had seen it before. When Madame Vileroy had first given her the ability to hide, she had wandered into many of the rooms, exploring, with everything frozen. Somehow, she could never find Vileroy in a frozen state. Maybe she never was. But she did find that room — and five years ago, the person she found inside, gazing through the solitary white window, was someone that looked an awful lot like Buddy. Bicé pushed those thoughts out of her head and returned to the present conversation. “Well, aren’t you curious?” she asked.

“It’s just his nerves, sis,” said Belle, putting an arm around her sister. “And maybe he won’t have to steal.” Bicé tried to stifle her frustration at Valentin and Belle, who were being so obtuse. As they passed a kiosk, she grabbed a Bulgarian newspaper and tossed a dollar to the vendor, with a curt
mersi.

Valentin’s hand brushed against Belle’s. A sort of reassurance that they were in this together. Neither one of them had enjoyed it, but it was a hazard of their chosen game. It wasn’t the worst thing they had to do, nor the most disagreeable. Just an everyday nuisance — having to listen to Bicé relive scenes from a life they had supposedly lived, being reminded of the false memories that Madame Vileroy had used to fill the gaps in Bicé’s and Christian’s minds — of a shared childhood that had never existed.

On the way over, Christian made himself a promise.
I’m not going to steal today. Today, for once, I won’t give in to this sick habit.
But Christian knew that he couldn’t always trust himself. Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just give in to sucking at whatever he did.
Sports are supposed to be fun,
he thought. But he always let thoughts like that die. He needed to win. There would be scouts for the national team there. And this was the only way Christian knew to protect himself from a life of poverty. Besides, if he were doing it for the fun, he’d just quit sports and write.

Once again, Christian would have to face Connor Wirth. As the swimmers were preparing for the 400-meter butterfly, standing and stretching next to their platforms, pulling on their swim caps, Christian approached Connor.

Connor looked up. “Hey. Congrats on the tennis thing. I heard you made it to State.”

“Thanks,” said Christian.

“You’re just cleaning up this season, aren’t you?”

Just then, the announcer came on the loudspeaker. “. . . and by platform five, Connor Wirth, the clear favorite to win the race, is preparing for another Marlowe victory.” Connor smiled and waved at his parents.

Christian felt something in his chest.
The announcer didn’t even mention me. Did the scouts hear?
He turned to leave, the weight of his fears pressing on his body and making him so sick with worry that he didn’t hear the announcer finally read his stellar swimming stats.

As Connor was bent over, stretching his hamstrings, Christian gave him a friendly pat on the back, right behind his lungs, and wished him good luck.

Just as he was finishing the race, Christian realized what he had done. He was the first to reach the end, and as he pulled himself out of the water, he saw that no one was looking. A lifeguard was jumping into the water. Parents were running from the stands. The other swimmers reached the end and, one by one, realized what had happened. Connor Wirth had almost drowned. In his hurry, Christian had taken a bit too much of Connor’s lung capacity. He had assumed that Connor would just swim slower. But Connor had passed out before he even realized he needed to breathe.

Connor’s parents were so scared that they kept him home from school for several days. Mrs. Wirth was absolutely wrecked with worry. But still, she had her explanations. To Mrs. Wirth, the world was a very logical place, with a rational reason for everything. Nothing inexplicable could ever be acknowledged. And so she put her son through a series of medical tests to pinpoint the underlying condition that must have been the cause of his accident. Connor’s friends went to his house to see him in groups of three or four, each bringing little presents, best wishes, and gossip from school.

The only person who didn’t go was Christian, who chose instead to remain holed up with Buddy, his only real friend. A few hours after the swim meet, Christian sat cross-legged on top of the closed lid of his water coffin. Buddy sat next to him, trying to entice him into a game of thumb war. Christian just sat there, head hung, shoulders slumped forward, while Buddy played thumb war with his flaccid hand. He didn’t notice Madame Vileroy come in. She was standing in the corner, watching, and after a few minutes, he knew without having to look up that she was there.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be sorry, Christian. You’re always sorry,” she said.

“He almost died. And you’re telling me that’s OK?”

“No. Stealing is supposed to make you look good. It’s not heroic to beat a dead fish.”

“I didn’t think it through,” said Christian.

“Practice makes perfect, my dear,” she said as she swept out of the room.

Buddy tossed a basketball to Christian, trying to get him to play. Christian looked at Buddy and felt grateful for the reminder. He did have something to look forward to. The basketball game on Friday would be better. He could play for fun for a change and let the others take care of winning. “Good idea, Buddy. Let’s play basketball.”