Short Story Inspired by Cornell's Hotel de la Duchesse-Anne
We are an odd pair, you and I. We sit opposite the skeleton bookcase and exchange forlorn glances. It comforts me to think that I rescued you from your gnarled branch, from the cruel artifice of your crystal case world.
I can feel your bird claws and tiny bird nails grip my trigger finger. With an upward movement that is swift but not sudden I press you close, your yellowed breast against my cheek. The smell of feathers, bird seed, and gunpowder is an oddly natural one.
Duchess Anne is in the next room. The two of us can see her petticoat. It is the color of peach sorbet. We can make out her four dainty limbs, half of her past the threshold of the wooden door. She rests soundly amid a mound of tulle. The Iberian rug, a family heirloom, is blood stained.
It is quite a bother to be this tall. Yes. Quite a nuisance. Why must I see above and past the skeleton bookcase? Why this peach colored nightmare?
Our four eyes scan the titles of books to pass the time. “The Complete Works of Homer, Volume 1,” “Othello,” “Don Quixote,” “The Art of Embroidery: A Woman’s Guide.” “Bridge: Bidding Naturally,” “Perfect Thai.” The pendulum of the mad cuckoo clock moves in disregard for what has come to pass. It is 5:00 a.m. now. Yes, it is time to call the police.
“Operator? Yes, Yes. Connect me to Constable Turner. It’s an emergency.”
“Matthews? Is that you Matthews?”
“Something terrible has happened to the Duchess Anne.”
“Matthews I haven’t the time. Spit it out.”
“She’s dead.”
“Is this another one of her sick charades? We can’t send our men off to play house with the Misses.”
“Damn it Turner. She’s been shot. It probably happened hours ago her body’s as stiff as a . . .”
“Matthews if you’re toying with me . . . Damn. I’m sending Brooks and Chambers. Matthews you there Matthews?”
“Constable?”
“Wait for them at the gates!”
It is time we collect our things and go. Yes bird, it is time to go. I release the phone, hands moist, sickened not by Duchesse Anne’s death but by my pleasure in seeing her go. My pleasure in the idea of her being found, limbs splayed, like the doll she never was.
I walk through the foyer, carpet bag in hand. It is stuffed with wicked reminders of the Duchess Anne. Objects imbued with her essence and yet they are things I could never part with. An eyeglass. A Chinese fan. A chess set. A pair of sewing scissors, thimble, and needle. A small phonograph in a wooden box. Twelve silver spoons. There are more things of course but I shall stop there for bird and I have much to do. Bird and I will soon depart and make our way to the shores of the West Indies. I swing the door open call for a carriage and am off to the port.
I can feel your bird claws and tiny bird nails grip my trigger finger. With an upward movement that is swift but not sudden I press you close, your yellowed breast against my cheek. The smell of feathers, bird seed, and gunpowder is an oddly natural one.
Duchess Anne is in the next room. The two of us can see her petticoat. It is the color of peach sorbet. We can make out her four dainty limbs, half of her past the threshold of the wooden door. She rests soundly amid a mound of tulle. The Iberian rug, a family heirloom, is blood stained.
It is quite a bother to be this tall. Yes. Quite a nuisance. Why must I see above and past the skeleton bookcase? Why this peach colored nightmare?
Our four eyes scan the titles of books to pass the time. “The Complete Works of Homer, Volume 1,” “Othello,” “Don Quixote,” “The Art of Embroidery: A Woman’s Guide.” “Bridge: Bidding Naturally,” “Perfect Thai.” The pendulum of the mad cuckoo clock moves in disregard for what has come to pass. It is 5:00 a.m. now. Yes, it is time to call the police.
“Operator? Yes, Yes. Connect me to Constable Turner. It’s an emergency.”
“Matthews? Is that you Matthews?”
“Something terrible has happened to the Duchess Anne.”
“Matthews I haven’t the time. Spit it out.”
“She’s dead.”
“Is this another one of her sick charades? We can’t send our men off to play house with the Misses.”
“Damn it Turner. She’s been shot. It probably happened hours ago her body’s as stiff as a . . .”
“Matthews if you’re toying with me . . . Damn. I’m sending Brooks and Chambers. Matthews you there Matthews?”
“Constable?”
“Wait for them at the gates!”
It is time we collect our things and go. Yes bird, it is time to go. I release the phone, hands moist, sickened not by Duchesse Anne’s death but by my pleasure in seeing her go. My pleasure in the idea of her being found, limbs splayed, like the doll she never was.
I walk through the foyer, carpet bag in hand. It is stuffed with wicked reminders of the Duchess Anne. Objects imbued with her essence and yet they are things I could never part with. An eyeglass. A Chinese fan. A chess set. A pair of sewing scissors, thimble, and needle. A small phonograph in a wooden box. Twelve silver spoons. There are more things of course but I shall stop there for bird and I have much to do. Bird and I will soon depart and make our way to the shores of the West Indies. I swing the door open call for a carriage and am off to the port.