Chapter 9
I stay seated after the last projection ends.
Each reel is no longer than forty-five seconds, but I’m deeply unsettled by them.
Particularly a scene between a husband and a wife as they feed their baby.
Such a normal domestic event that happens countless times each day around the world.
And yet this specific instance, this one time, can be repeated infinitely.
That man, that woman, that baby. Over and over, forever, captured on film.
What would it feel like to see my mother and father, smiling, taking care of Pieter between them? Would they choose to be trapped in that moment, before they lost him, before things broke so spectacularly that they were never able to put them back together?
I can’t picture myself between them in the same scenario, perhaps because I can’t imagine my father gazing at me with that combination of affection and pride.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the images both imagined and real.
The moving pictures are haunting. It’s less that the people—streaming out of a building after work, knocking down a wall, playing jokes on each other while gardening—are ghosts, and more that I am one.
I’m the phantom in the dark, lingering in a world that I have no place in, looking at what was never meant for me.
And I can’t stop thinking about what other reels might be out there.
A whole collection of them. Forty-five seconds at a time, showing the moment when a body at last releases hold of its soul.
“Amazing,” Inge says, breathless with wonder. She rises from her red velvet chair, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
“I think I’m going to be ill.” I cover my mouth.
All the bodies I’ve seen, all the violence, all the horror.
Even the still images we’ve taken and studied are nothing compared to the actual moment of death captured to be replayed forever.
Infinite suffering, projected onto a screen in flickering light.
The violation overwhelms me. I don’t believe souls can be damned, but it feels desperately cruel that the victims we’ve found aren’t allowed to rest in peace.
That Diavola can watch them whenever she wants to relive her exploits.
I can’t reconcile the Diavola who would do this with the one who leaves me teasing letters.
How broken she must be, how splintered her psyche.
I’m not much for delving into the minds of murderers to understand why they do what they do, but I cannot understand her, and it makes me feel as though I’m the one who’s mad.
Inge presses a hand to my forehead. I cling to the warm reality of her and try to calm myself. We don’t know for certain that Diavola has a cinematograph. Even if she does, even if the films are perverse beyond imagining, they’re just images. The real suffering ended at the moment of death.
When I find Diavola, I’ll destroy whatever she has.
I don’t care if it’s evidence. The idea of someone being able to watch me, weeping and begging and hoping for one last moment of connection with my father as he died on the floor, is enough to make me want to burn down this theater.
I know it isn’t the fault of the Lumière brothers and their technology, but everything feels raw and painful.
I can’t try to charm Louis Lumière into talking to me today. I can’t do anything right now but drown in my own despair and rage.
A soft hand comes down on my shoulder. I look up into Maher’s beloved face.
“We caught up,” he says. I can see the concern shared between him and Dávid, standing behind him.
“And we talked to the projectionist,” Dávid says. “Louis always takes afternoon tea in the Hotel Métropole when he’s here. You should come with us.”
“Must I?” I want nothing more than to walk away. Walk and walk and think of nothing.
Dávid gives me a sympathetic smile. “Men always want to talk more around beautiful women.”
“And what am I?” Inge says with a scowl.
“You are the beautiful woman we’re leaving here to charm the projectionist. This is the set of reels they show when Louis is here because they’re his, but apparently they have more from their cinematograph machines spread around Europe.
Try to act impressed with what he shows you.
Get him talking about who else has the equipment. ”
“Won’t Louis know?” Inge’s already getting into character, pinching her cheeks and checking her hair. I wonder if she learned that from me. I’m not sure whether I should be proud or sad that she, too, has figured out how to perform femininity to her advantage.
“Hopefully,” Maher says, “but the best information is usually held by people working day-to-day operations.”
Inge nods firmly. “I’ll meet you back at our rooms. Unless the projectionist is very handsome, in which case I will allow him to take me out.”
“Inge,” I say, my voice sharp with warning. She’s only eighteen, and in an unfamiliar city.
“Be careful. I know. I’m so fortunate to have a big sister and two brothers to fuss over me, but I have a knife in my boot and extremely well-developed situational awareness.
” She kisses my cheek, then stands and swishes toward the projectionist, who’s standing in the rear of the room packing away the reels.
I glance back and see that he is, in fact, very handsome.
I scowl. “It’s not safe.”
Dávid holds out a hand and helps me stand. “Says the woman I met in a club of notorious disrepute and took home that same night.”
“But I knew you weren’t dangerous.”
“How?” Maher asks.
“I just—I knew.” I always do. But I don’t have time to speak to the projectionist and get a sense of him.
“Inge can take care of herself.” Dávid tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and leads me out. “Also, I resent that you don’t find me dangerous. I can be dangerous.”
“His snoring alone could kill a less patient man,” Maher says dryly but with an affectionate smile to soften it. “Can we talk about the room arrangements? I’d like to propose a swap. I’ll trade Dávid for whichever of you girls doesn’t snore.”
“I talk in my sleep, and Inge never seems to sleep at all.”
“So she doesn’t snore, is what I’m hearing.”
I smile, but my heart isn’t in it. Even though the cinematograph theory is mine and is one we haven’t been able to fully explore yet, this feels like a waste of time. Diavola was never here. This death wasn’t hers. Anything that doesn’t bring me closer to her is intolerable.
I can’t escape the feeling that I ought to stay with Inge, but Dávid and Maher are right about my presence making men talk. I would be livid if they had a chance to follow up on this potential lead and didn’t take it, so I can’t very well miss the opportunity myself.
The hotel isn’t far. The windows are outlined in swirling iron, a play on turning something hard into something organic.
“Métropole” is spelled out in suspended letters over the roof, a bold advertisement that almost looks as though it’s floating in the sky itself.
My eyes linger on the roof, as they always do now since Diavola mocked me for failing to see her so many times.
But no one is there, because she isn’t here.
I let my gaze drop. Arched stonework over the entrance to the hotel makes it stand out from the uniform block, and a fountain splashes pleasantly in the open space in front.
Benches sit beneath a few trees, providing a shady respite.
It would be a nice place to spend a few hours.
When was the last time I sat in a pretty place and read?
I think of Diavola’s chiding that I never appreciate art or beauty in the cities I visit, and I hate her a little more because she knows full well she’s the reason I can’t.
A doorman in a neat blue uniform with bright brass buttons holds the door open for us.
The interior is even more impressive than the exterior.
The hallway back to the restaurant is broken by arches.
Between the arches, the ceilings have been paneled with glass.
Whether they’re open to the sky above or cleverly lit to simulate it, I can’t tell, but the effect is dazzling.
From each arch, a crystal chandelier hangs.
Chairs are grouped in the alcoves, which normally feels excessive to me but in this space makes perfect sense.
Who wouldn’t want to spend more time here?
I try to imagine sitting at one of those tables to people-watch and gossip and laugh, my head pressed close to someone else’s, but I only see who isn’t here. This whole city is rendered meaningless by Diavola’s absence.
We bypass the front desk and proceed directly to the restaurant.
The expertly fitted and carved wood paneling on the walls and ceiling is such a light color and so highly polished it looks gilded.
The idea of gold without the expense. Mirrors line the wall just beneath the ceiling, amplifying and repeating the grandeur.
It’s so artfully done I feel myself relaxing a bit.
There is still beauty in this world, still those who care about creating it.
It’s important to remember. And no matter what Diavola says, I can notice and appreciate it.
Then I remember the artful arrangement of bold orange flowers on that poor dead girl’s side table, the beauty she brought into her life before it was taken from her, and I’m sad again. How can I linger on beauty when brutality is everywhere?
I have a job to do here. I scan the restaurant for our target.
Dark brown leather booths are spaced around the room.
Potted palms spreading overhead provide a sense of privacy.
Beneath one such palm is a man with a tremendous mustache.
It curls onto his cheeks, hiding his mouth entirely.
He has a large, appealing nose, bold eyebrows, thick wiry hair, and eyes that turn down at the outside corners, giving him a slightly melancholy look.