She
stood at the window watching her father, Colonel Forrester, as he conducted a
prolonged interview of a poorly dressed young man in the garden below her.
There
was something about the young man that troubled her, and it wasn’t just because
he was tall and handsome, and disheveled.
Amelie
could not peel away from the perch where she concealed herself behind the long
white curtains, wishing more than anything that she could hear the conservation
taking place between them.
She
knew that the household staff were preparing a room for him in the guest
quarters of her father’s wing at that very moment, though she did not hear of
it until a few minutes prior to his arrival.
Nils,
their butler, had kept the information from the staff and from her, though he
had probably known for some days that her father intended to keep the boy as
their guest for a term of days, possibly longer.
Amelie
positively loathed those kinds of secrets. She felt that they were disruptive,
and not just to her. They were disruptive to the staff as well.
She
had been feeling out-of-control lately, and such disruptive secrets would only
contribute to that.
Amelie
had managed to squeeze a little information from Nils about the shabby-boy and
what he would be doing at the mansion; Nils had told her that his name was Johnny
Holiday, that he worked for the Saint Anthony Star, the evening paper,
that he was an aspiring journalist and a student at the University of Saint
Thomas, across the river in Pig’s Eye.
Nils
said that her father had enjoined him to do some research, and perhaps write a
story concerning Amelie’s husband, Bjorn Elmquist, who had gone missing a few
months earlier.
Amelie
had begun to shake, slightly, when the old butler told her that.
Nils told
her that it was his understanding, that the Colonel, on account of his fondness
for her husband, and believing he may never return, wanted something tangible
to remember him by, a piece of prose to capture the essence of the man and
remind him of their time together.
Amelie
found Nils’ explanation to be preposterous.
She
felt threatened by the prospect of this boy getting into her business…it was
more than just disruptive, it was menacing.
However,
Amelie knew her father was obsessed with stories, he believed narrative had a
mystical quality, the way some aboriginal tribes believed that photographing a
person could steal their soul or rob them of their essence, as the renowned
anthropologist Margaret Meade had reported.
Her
father believed that stories could do the same thing, like the ancient people
whose singular ambition was to be remembered in song and have their deeds
recorded in sagas and epic poetry, to be retold throughout the ages.
The
Colonel wanted to find out why he had gone and he wanted someone who was unknown
to both his friends and enemies to carry out the inquiry.
Perhaps he would get a good story
out of the investigation, she concluded, but that would just be sauce
for the plum…so to speak.
Amelie
was nervous, and shaky, and it was getting worse by the minute
She didn’t
want anyone asking questions about her marriage. Bjorn was gone, and her father
was right, he would not be coming back.
Amelie
was certain of it, and she wanted her father to accept it and move on.
Bjorn
would never be heard from again.
She watched them drinking coffee, while she-herself
quaffed a tumbler of strong brown liquor; she needed it she told herself…she
always needed it, to settle her nerves and prepare her for her own interview
with the aspiring journalist, which she intended to conduct just as soon as her
father was done with him.
Amelie was determined to discover his purpose.
Nils would bring him to her shortly and she would put his heels in the fire.
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