Rouge(41)

“Why?”

“Don’t you want to make me weep with envy, Belle? Doesn’t that sound like fun?” He smiles and raises his hat. That’s Monty. That’s Alain. That’s Paul. “I’ll be in touch. Sorry about your mother, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

He walks away. Leaving me there alone, wanting to say wait. Wait. But the word is stuck in my throat. The sun has sunk. Nothing but a dim red flame over the palms and the rocks and the distant waves I still won’t look at. But I can hear them all around me. That gentle, relentless primordial roar. And it reminds me. I never told you about my mother. I never told you.





12


The doors open just as I reach the threshold. The woman in silver who greeted me the first night. The one who looked like she’d been eating too many cherries. She seems paler than last time, her eyes ringed in more silvery smoke. She glances at the red voucher in my hand and smiles.

“Well, aren’t we the lucky one?”

The grand hall is darker tonight. I can just make out the red chandelier, the looming shape of the giant aquarium, concealed by red curtains.

“This way,” she says, smiling, leading me down the hall. Her hand on my arm a firm, caressing grip. I’m about to go on a very exciting journey, she says. I’m about to take the first step. Am I excited?

“Very excited,” I whisper, fear swimming in me like a bright fish. We pass clusters of luminous people in exquisite dress—red and black and silver. Their bright faces glow in the dark. Members, they must be. No sign of the woman in red anywhere. On the landing of the stair, I see the twins in silhouette, faces veiled. I feel them watching the woman in silver tug me through the crowd. “An exciting journey,” they all echo as she ushers me past. “The first step.” They smile knowingly with their eyes. I’m touched by their raised glasses, their eyes on me, so many sky-colored eyes, their hissing whispers of “Bravo.” “Bon Voyage.” But another part of me thinks, All this for a free treatment? For what is probably just a fancy facial? But maybe they take their facials more seriously here. Calling them treatments. I nod at them all. “Thank you. Merci.” And they just stare at me, these strangers.

“We should hurry,” the woman says, tugging on my wrist nervously. I wonder, will we go through the corridor marked SIGNATURE RITUALS or the one marked VOYAGES MERVEILLEUX? Instead she leads me to an unmarked staircase near the Depths.

I’m having trouble following her down the winding stairs. Suddenly, my feet won’t move.

“What is it, Daughter?” she asks, pulling on my arm to no end.

“I don’t know.”

She frowns. Do I not want the free treatment? Do I not wish to go on an exciting journey? So I say, “Excuse me,” and take off my shoes. The insides feel very hot between my fingers. Throbbing like hearts, or a pair of lungs breathing. The stairs are cold on my bare feet, but at least I’m able to descend them now. She smiles, relieved. Daughter’s antics on the stair were très amusant, she says, but she’s very glad they’re over now. Because we really don’t want to be late for such a momentous occasion, do we? Such a momentous occasion as a spa treatment? I think. But I say, “Absolutely.” And she tells me to run, “Let’s run, all right?” And then the two of us are running hand in hand down the stairs. As I run, I want to laugh. Running for a treatment. Sort of defeats the purpose of the relaxation element, doesn’t it? But I run with her, the shoes beating harder and faster in my hands.



* * *




I’m in some sort of dark-red waiting room. Heavy with the scent of eucalyptus. Mirrors all around. Bon Voyage, the woman in silver said, and then she was gone. She took my clothes and my shoes and my purse with her. Left me standing here barefoot in a white-and-red robe. I hear a waterfall somewhere. The distant sound of chimes. Some red magazines, looks like, on a black marble table. Beside them, a vaseful of what looks like raspberries. Also chilled water jugs filled with… what is it, blood vessels? Pomegranate seeds. Get a grip, I tell myself. A little nervous, I guess. Why a little nervous? When they’ve been nothing but kind? Just a spa. Just a free treatment. I’d love to hear all about it. All the lavish details, that strange man, Hud Hudson, said. Me too, Hud Hudson. I want them too. I always did. How many times have I sat at the dress shop, looking up pictures of the fanciest spas on my phone? Wishing I could walk through those gilded gates and walk out again, lifted and glowing and reborn? Thinking the secret is just behind those gates. Secret to what? Something essential. And now I’m here. Within the gates. In the waiting room. Better, much better, than my Montreal spa’s waiting room with its dated copies of Elle and its cheap paper cups of weak tea. I go there twice a year, which is the most I can afford. Twice a year, a woman in a white smock takes me into a darkened cubicle and electrocutes my face. I taste metal in my teeth for weeks after, but it’s worth it for that slightly lifted look. After the electrocution (she calls it microcurrent), she coats my still-spasming skin with marine algae. I lie there under the cold, black sea goop for as long as she’ll let me, dreaming of luminosity. How I’ll soon glow in the dark.

What the fuck did you do to your face? Mother would say when we FaceTimed afterward.

Nothing.

Liar. You did something. Tell me.