No one was more surprised than I when Henri decided to write a concerto. I asked him about it only once, and he replied, “I finally want to show the school what I am capable of.” I shook my head. “You needn’t prove anything to them, the ignoramuses. Don’t feel as though you must compete. What’s that M. Ouillé says in our orchestration class? One must know one’s limits.” It seemed as though he were compounding injury, the way he begged for comparison against me. Only the year before I’d had my own piece performed at the Elysée Montmartre, receiving raves and exaltations from all quarters. Candidly, I was told word of the composition made it as far as the
préfet
of the Conservatoire, François Chautemps, and he requested a copy of the sheet music so that he might inspect my craft. There was no way to be sure this was true, of course, but it did not seem so out of reach, especially then. I hoped my success might inspire Henri to do more.
Not long afterward I found myself circling Montparnasse, looking for a woman whose name I’ve long forgotten and instead noticing Henri moving along in a vacant haze. I called to him, though it didn’t seem at the time he heard me. Instead, he slipped into a small paper shop on the corner that until then I had thought was closed and unoccupied. It seemed reasonable, given how dusty the volumes in the window were, and the number of dead flies that lay among them, half-consumed by dermestids. I followed Henri inside, my lady friend forgotten, and was confronted by claustrophobic walls of ancient bound theatrical scripts and other ephemera. I did not find Henri immediately. Only a small Indian who stood behind the counter, his head wrapped in frayed scarves. His eyes looked yellow and wide as they stared at me, his lower lip curled in a rictal frown. He pointed a skeletal finger at me but said nothing. It was enough to unnerve me, and I wished to leave but could not. I had to find Henri. I would not abandon him.
But it turned out I did not need to. He appeared from the warren of stacks, his eyes swimming with joy—or if not joy, then something else, something more powerful. I knew immediately the forecast was dire. He accidentally dropped the bound script he held upon seeing me, then sputtered and stumbled as though caught doing something improper. I looked down, as did he, at what he had dropped, but neither of us spoke, as though in tacit agreement we should pay it as little heed as possible.
“What do you want, Valise? Why are you following me?”
“Following you? I wasn’t doing anything of the sort. You know very well I lunch in the Dôme. I merely saw you while waiting for a friend of mine.”
Henri twitched, his eyes dancing around the room and refusing to meet my gaze. It was clear he did not want me to ask about the script that lay between us.
“What book is that?” I asked.
He tensed, as though he feared I might swoop down and snatch it from him. Had I been closer, I might have.
“It’s nothing at all,” he stammered.
“Nothing, is it?” I leaned closer, daunting him. He winced, his eyes spinning into his head, and if I knew my unblinking stare would bore into his psyche given time, I was robbed of it by the Indian. I had not heard him approach, yet there he stood behind Henri. At first, yellow eyes were all I saw, giant and menacing, and then the pit of my stomach rebelled. Though his expression did not change, it felt as though he were snarling at me. I stepped away from Henri, hoping to keep some distance between myself and the strange man. Henri, for the most part, remained in whatever half-trance I had found him in. I tried desperately to break it.
“Come, Henri. I haven’t eaten. Join me.”
“I’m a bit—”
“Nonsense,” I swallowed, my gorge rising. “Join me at the Dôme. I’ll arrange for us a table on the patio.” Where the air is fresher, I neglected to add.
Neither I nor Henri looked at the Indian, but it was clear Henri wanted to and only my presence stopped him. I made the mistake of letting my eyes drift to the script, lying face down upon the ground. I barely had time to notice the strange symbol printed on its lower right corner before Henri’s demeanor sharpened and his wits returned. Without hesitation, he bent down and picked up the book, then held it tight to his chest as though to hide it.
“Just let me take care of this. I’ll join you in a moment.”
“Please, allow me,” I said, graciously drawing my wallet from my pocket. I wanted to hurry him, but also see the play he had chosen. Part of me also hoped he might mention my offer to his sister. He would not accept any money, however.
“I do not need your charity, Valise. Please wait for me at the café.”
I looked at the yellow-eyed Indian and acquiesced, eager to be out of his presence. I retreated to Le Dôme and ordered a tea as I awaited my friend’s arrival. It was unclear how long I sat there with my cigarettes burning, watching the warped door of that hidden paper shop. But I never saw Henri emerge, and I was forced eventually to lunch alone.
Henri more or less vanished from my life thereafter. On occasion I’d see him dashing madly across campus, always too far to catch, and I heard the whispers about him that were even then slowly spreading across campus, incredulous whispers I at once put out of mind. It was a lonely existence without Henri. Certainly, I had others to spend my time with—a gifted musician never suffers from the lack—but none were as dear to me as my friend Henri, none inspired in me the same amount of pride and love for all their foibles.
After the first few weeks he was gone I found an excuse to visit the small flat he and Elyse shared, all in the hope that I might be invited in to see whether those rumors I refused to believe were true. Elyse answered the door when I knocked, but though she did not open the door all the way, still I could see Henri haunting the background, a frail gaunt specter, eyes ringed dark and full of fire. Elyse smiled that smile which melted my heart and made me forget all others, but when I tried to step past her, let alone speak a word to the passing Henri, she raised a delicate hand to my chest. It was clear from her face that all she sought was comfort. I had no choice but to put my feelings for Henri aside and console her.
She led me to the kitchen, far away from the room Henri was in. I imagined it was to ensure he could not hear what she had to say.
“All he does is write,” she said. “Always working on his strange music. I wish he would stop, Valise. I hear him late into the night whispering, whispering. Sometimes I worry it’s no longer his voice I hear but my own. Sometimes it’s no voice I recognize at all. Maybe he’ll listen to you. Maybe you can break him of his obsession. I want my brother back.” She broke down and cried on my chest, and I closed my eyelids and soaked in her sorrow. It was good, finally, to be once more needed, and I would do all I could for her.
“Henri!” I bellowed, storming into his room. I paused only long enough that I might grasp how disorganized and chaotic it was. “We must speak at once.”
My gaunt friend stepped from behind his cluttered desk. His face was drained of color, but I vowed not to let his appearance dissuade me.
“You must cease this, my friend. It is consuming you. I have never known you to be full of health, but this . . .” I waved my hand over his willowed frame. He merely attempted a pale imitation of a smile.
“It means nothing. None of it does. I am enraptured by this project.”
“What do you mean? What project?”
Here, his smile faltered.
“I cannot tell you.”
I sputtered. “Why on earth not?”
He would not look at me, and behind me Elyse
could
not. Suddenly I wondered if I had been played for a fool. Had anything Elyse told me been true? I could be sure of only one thing: that I’d had enough of their shenanigans. I wanted nothing more than to be gone, but despite the betrayal my insatiable curiosity had not been allayed. I spotted amid the clutter a familiar jaundiced volume, open and overturned. Even across the room it filled me with ill.
“What is that?” I ordered, but Henri stepped between me and it before I could get closer. He seemed strangely out of breath.
“It’s not yours. Valise, please leave.”
“I will do no such a thing. I demand you tell me what you are working on.”
He sighed and looked to where I expected his sister to be. But when I turned I found she had vanished.
“There is no one left to prove yourself to. Please leave. I must finish my writing. I feel I am so very close.”
“Close to what? To adapting
that
?” I pointed to the volume overturned on the table. I noticed his eyes would not go to it while I was in the room. “You think that will bring you what you need?”
“I’m not sure
what
it will bring, Valise. I’m not sure at all.”
“Then why do it? Look at yourself, Henri. The toll is too great. Forgive me, but you seem ill-equipped for the task. Here, I have an idea. Let me look at what you’ve done so far. Let me offer you my expertise.”
I thought he might be choking on his own tongue, that the stress was so great he was about to collapse into seizure. But that strange gurgling emerged as something else. Something I had not expected. “Are—are you laughing?” He did not deign me with the answer, but it was clear my offer was rejected by the sound of his uproarious laughter. I did not care for that reaction. I did not care for it at all.
How was I to know when I stormed out that I would not see Henri again for months? He and his sister disappeared from the circles we once travelled in, and if they had new circles I was blissfully kept ignorant. I did not appreciate the treatment I’d received from them, and had no interest in gracing them with a friendship that was so clearly unwelcome. I left them to their own devices as they left me to mine, and could not even find the interest to pay attention to the new rumors that were circulating about what Henri was doing with his sister’s help. There was talk. That was all I cared to know.
But even I could not escape the gossip for long. It ran like chains across the campus, binding students together one by one, forging them into a single voice that rattled inside my head. Elyse, I was told, had all but retired from social life in order to take care of her brother as he composed his grand opus. Confidentially, all the talk of Henri and his mysterious work grated on me, made me think that I might too want to pen some grand statement on life through music, if only to show those fools mesmerized by his growing legend that it was no great accomplishment. Yet I never did. I tried more than once, but each attempt ended in despairing failure. I’d never failed at
anything
before, and yet there I sat, night after night, devoid of any inspiration that might turn cacophonic notes into sweet euphonies. It disconcerted me, to say the least, and I knew I had only the lingering rumors of Henri to blame. Their echo seemed to follow me wherever I went.
I did all I could to forget my former friend and his sibling, put my experiences with them behind me once and for all. I could not understand what had gone wrong, and wanted to spend no more time on it than I already had. As far as I was concerned, the pair was dead, and I was better off. But one does not put aside feelings quite so easily. During the day I might have spoken with feigned ignorance when either name came up, but at night? At night visions haunted me, my dreams overrun with music and their laughing faces. I dreamt of far-away lands on lakes of shining gold, where kings and queens danced in opulent ballrooms while fools spied on from the wings. There I saw Henri and Elyse dressed in the finest clothing, spinning across a shining floor, never once turning their heads my way.
For all the above reasons, one can imagine my surprise when I received the invitation. The card was small and addressed to me in Henri’s shaking script, and on its rear face a time, an address in the Latin Quarter, and the words:
Your attendance is requested for an evening in Carcosa
. Carcosa. Now why did that name sound at once both familiar and dreadful? At the time, I could not recall. And that, in the end, may have been my greatest folly.
I had no intention of attending. Despite my curiosity at what Henri’s pedestrian mind might have conceived in its isolation, it was clear he did not fully appreciate the wealth of advice I had attempted to bestow. In fact, I took that invitation and threw it into the trash, trusting the lady who cleaned my rooms to rid me of it. And yet, what do you think happened when I returned from classes later that day? Only the discovery that she had left behind a single scrap of paper, caught in the thin metallic rim of my waste basket. I need not tell you what that scrap of paper was.
It seemed I was being summoned by a force far greater than myself, and I chose to comply lest it wreak havoc on my life. But of course superstition was not the only reason for my altered decision. In the time since receiving the card, my mind strayed repeatedly to the image of Elyse, and the thought of seeing her once again filled me with an unexpected longing.
The day arrived for Henri’s now-infamous performance just as I was recovering from the sort of head cold that keeps one bed-bound for days on end. I was well enough to go out and beyond the point of contagion, but even the short walk to the Hall du Sainte-Geneviève winded me. I took a drink of ice water from the bar once inside and settled, but I did not feel myself, and the medicinal tonic I’d had before leaving only made my head feel disconnected from the rest of my body. I tell you this partially as an explanation for what I witnessed, and partially to vindicate myself for not interfering.
I had heard the stories leading up to the day but hardly believed them. Had Henri really written the piece for merely a piano and violin? And was it true that none of those who auditioned managed to make it through a single practice without quitting? It sounded bizarre, and when I casually asked my classmates for proof there was none to be found. How could Henri have auditioned that many musicians and not once seen someone I knew? It was impossible. And yet the stories persisted. It was baffling, and I refused to believe them. Which is why the sight of the hall surprised me so. Perhaps my illness was again to blame, but I did not expect to find only a few rows of pews before a grand piano, elevated on a platform before the hall’s triptych of large windows overlooking the Seine. As the seconds ticked away and the rumored accompaniment did not arrive, I realized this was to be a solo performance, and I wondered how Henri would survive the pressure. Despite the way he had previously treated me, I had no interest in seeing him made a fool of so publicly.