Château Mémoire

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own.

I suddenly became so dizzy that I fell to the ground. After a minute or two, I pulled myself up and looked back at the mirror. I smoothed my coiffed bun; the course gray hairs are impossible to keep in place. Without Louisa, my lady’s maid, getting dressed and doing my hair has become a major ordeal. Drawing in my breath, I adjusted my corset, lifting and arranging my breasts in place. Finally, I fluffed my three petticoats into proper form.

“Pierre, gather the weapons before the mob arrives,” I yelled to my husband. It had been evermore terrifying since Louis and Marie were captured in June 1791, after fleeing the Tuileries Palace in an attempt to take refuge in Austria. They were now imprisoned, likely facing death. We had all deserted Versailles and took refuge at our country estates following the Women’s March in October 1789, when over 7,000 armed women and men showed up demanding bread, or cake, or whatever. Now the peasants were coming for us.

I climbed down the stairs and met Pierre in the salon. Didier, our butler, was with him, as was Aimee, our cook, and Jacque, our gardener. All were armed. Our other servants had abandoned us months earlier. Pierre handed me a pistol, and together we waited.

It was nearly dark when the mob arrived. There must have been a hundred, maybe more. They were yelling and carrying on, demanding food and grain, and calling me a pute (whore) and Pierre a couillon (man with small testicles). They brandished an assortment of weapons: picks, axes, shovels, and tools I had no name for.

“Go back to your homes,” Pierre called out.

The mob pushed closer, menacingly close. Standing next to the leader of the mob was my Louisa. That traitor was wearing one of my favorite dresses. Pierre fired his gun at the sky, but instead of retreating, the crowd pushed closer.

“Shoot them,” I yelled to my servants, as I began firing blindly into the crowd. “Shoot them,” I yelled again. Pierre took aim at the man leading the group, but before he could pull the trigger, Jacque turned toward Pierre and shot him in the chest.

“Why?” I called out.

Jacque bowed his head saying nothing, but the leader of the mob spoke up. “You nobles think the world revolves around you, but you are wrong. There is a new world coming and you will not be part of it.”

Aimee added, “You eat like kings, while we starve and watch you give scraps to the dogs and the pigs.”

I saw Louisa hurl a knife through the air. It struck me in my right breast. I dropped the gun and fell backwards.

Aimee came over. As I reached out for her hand to help me up, she kicked me in the face. “You stupid, selfish bitch. Your kind will never understand.” When I looked up, Didier, Jacque, and Louisa were standing over me.

The last face I saw was the leader of the mob. His penetrating brown eyes burned a hole in my soul. “Adieu, Madam Gerard. May you and your husband rot in hell.” I tried to cover my face to protect it from the repeated blows inflicted by my servants, eventually my world went black.

* * * * * * * * * *

Jason helped me up to my feet. My god, he was handsome – and smart with a computer engineering degree and a job at Microsoft.

“Lauren, are you okay? What happened?”

“Just a bad dizzy spell. I’m alright.” Jason adjusted the strap of my dress to help cover the reddish birthmark on my breast. He knew the two-inch long marks on my right ribcage, breast, and neck made me self-conscious. Jason took my arm and escorted me downstairs to meet the rest of our group. On a whim, after dating for a few months, I invited him to spend two weeks with me in Europe, including the three-night stay at this château in the town of Alençon, the lace-making capital of France. This unique property in the eastern region of Normandy had been turned into an upscale resort with gourmet meals and hosted excursions.

The dining room was set, adorned with beautiful people. Half were American, and the other half were from everywhere: Russia, India, Mexico, South Africa, and Sweden. A group of ten couples in total. Our dining companions that night included an older couple from Moscow, an youngish couple from Guadalajara, a gay couple from Stockholm, and another couple our age from San Jose, California. Our host, Antoine, explained the itinerary for the next three days, while we dined on marmite dieppoise, a fish stew, and coq au vin, some chicken dish. Afterwards, we were left to mingle. Dana, the woman from San Jose, took an immediate interest in Jason. They had attended Stanford around the same time and had a few friends in common – most notably Patrice, Jason’s ex-girlfriend.

I sipped the Calvados our waiter handed to me. This apple brandy was ubiquitous to the Normandy region of France. I enjoyed it more than I expected to. Between the Calvados, the wine from dinner, and my dizzy spell from earlier, I called it a night.

* * * * * * * * * *

Following our breakfast of assorted crepes, we all boarded a bus that took us to the Loire Valley where we toured vineyards from Tours to Orléans, sampling the finest wines France has to offer: Chenin Blanc, Pinot Gris, and Pinot Noir. Dana and her companion Rich stuck to us like glue. She shared story after story about her time at Stanford - the more she drank, the more annoyed I became. Occasionally, Rich shot me a sympathetic smile. He was apparently used to his woman’s flirtatious nature. But, damn it, Jason was eating this shit up.

Having enjoyed an elaborate three-course meal at one of the wineries, dinner was light: French onion soup, quiche Lorraine, and assorted desserts: apple tart, crème brûlée, and a lovely rice pudding called teurgoule. After the meal, Jason and I abandoned the group for a walk around the estate. Antoine caught up to us and gave us a tour of sorts. The gardens were stunning. Almost all the produce served with our meals was grown on site. The flower garden surrounding a large pond was spectacular. Antoine pointed out assorted ditches around the property. “What’s that all about?” Jason inquired.

“Foxholes,” said Antoine. “They were dug during the war. This entire estate was the headquarters for a German platoon.”

“No kidding,” said Jason.

“Crazy story,” said Antoine. “The woman who owned the property allegedly stabbed the German commander to death. The current owner of the château is her great niece.”

“Fascinating,” I replied. “Jason, that bus ride took a lot out of me. I’m going to head back to the room.”

“Do you mind if I stay out here with Antoine a while longer? I want to catch the night sky.”

“Enjoy!” I said to Jason. I looked at Antoine and forced a smile. Something about him did not sit right with me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The way he looked at me was like he saw right through me. I didn’t care for it.

Walking back, I passed the Russian couple. Although they seemed nice enough, I was not sure. Were they the ones I was sent here to meet? The husband nodded at me. Those two never smiled. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. I ascended the stairs. As I passed the massive mirror in the hallway, I took a glance to see if I looked as tired as I felt.

* * * * * * * * * *

The dizziness briefly overtook me. I grasped the credenza to stable myself. Adjusting my top hat, I called for Isabelle. She joined me, and we descended the stairs to the salon. Monsieur Manet would be arriving soon.

Isabelle looked enchanting dressed in a mauve, high-waisted silk dress - low cut, exposing her succulent breasts. Her auburn hair coifed in a high bun was adorned with ribbons that matched the dress.

We observed the carriage arrive and went out together to greet the already-famous painter. His assistant carried the large canvas, which was wrapped in a black cloth. It must have been at least four feet by six feet.

“Come, sir. Welcome back to our humble château.”

He reached out his hand to mine. “Call me Édouard,” he insisted. Manet embraced Isabelle, kissing her on each cheek. Together, we entered the salon. The assistant carefully placed the still-covered painting against a wall.

Manet turned to Isabelle. “I have missed you, chérie.” I caught a wink in his eye.

I poured us each a glass of champagne and prepared myself for the great reveal. Following Manet’s humiliation after Le Déjeuner sur l’herb (Luncheon on the Grass) was rejected by the selection committee for the Paris Salon and was instead exhibited at the Salon des Refusal in 1863, he agreed to paint the portrait for only 2,500 francs. I even paid an extra 45 francs to have my wife adorned in royal blue.

“Remove the veil,” ordered Manet. His assistant lifted the cloth.

I gasped in horror at the obscenity. Isabelle was naked, sitting on a royal blue settee with our Siamese cat draped over her lap. Her eyes were painted in a manner where they stared at you from any angle.

“You expect me to display this atrocity. It belongs in a whore house.” I turned to Isabelle, squeezing my fingers into her exposed upper arm, “Did you pose naked for this man?”

“Édouard assured me that to get my form correct it was necessary. He promised to clothe me afterwards.”

I slapped her in the face, then walked over to Manet and threw my champagne at him. He stood up, took out his handkerchief, and dabbed the liquid away. “You are a disgrace,” I said, “a lecherous man of no talent.”

“You may insult my honor, monsieur, but never my talent. I must challenge you to a duel,” said Manet.

I yelled for my servant to bring me my best set of daggers. Lucian opened the case, and Manet selected his blade, nodding in approval at the quality of the weapons. “Follow me out to the garden.” The time being short, my servant Lucian served as my second, while his assistant served as Manet’s.

We walked past the stables to a large grassy area. It was my intention to ruin the bastard’s career – what was left of it. I aimed for his right hand, but Manet spun around, plunging the knife into my chest puncturing my lung. I gasped for air.

“Ma Chérie, he left me no choice.” I watched as Manet walked over to Isabelle, placing his arm around her shoulder and kissing her neck. Together, they stared down at me while I drew my last breath.

“Adieu, François.” Isabelle turned from me back to Manet. “I will not miss that brutal man.”

* * * * * * * * * *

When I heard Jason come into the room, I glanced at the clock. It was 1:20am. Checking out the night sky, I wasn’t buying it. I laid still while he crawled in beside me. I was still in a daze from earlier that evening. What the hell was going on? Since I arrived in this damn château, it was like I’ve been in some crazy dream state. Luckily, we had only one more day and night at this location. After I passed off the package, it would be over. I would continue on the rest of the trip my handler planned out for me, then return to my life in Seattle - with or without Jason. We’ll see how it goes.

* * * * * * * * * *

The alarm went off at 6:00am. Following coffee and croissants, we were on the road again for yet another bus tour. Who signs up for this shit? I thought vacations were all about relaxation. I did my best to avoid Dana and her dip-shit companion, Rich. What was he doing last night when she was star-gazing with Jason? Whatever. We hung out with the couple from Mexico. Maybe Miguel is my contact, I wondered. Whatever. They were funny as hell, and their English was impressive.

More than once, I caught Dana looking over at Jason. For the most part, she circulated from couple to couple. That bitch was having a great time. I wanted to hate her, because she was everything I wasn’t – crazy confident with no inhibitions. But in the end, I envied her. Dana was free to be whoever she wanted, whereas I always have a persona to protect.

By the end of the day trip, we were down to six couples in our group. India and South Africa were inseparable after the first night. Same with Salt Lake City and Sweden – neither couple drank alcohol. Why would someone even come to France if they didn’t drink wine?

I tried to feign interest in the history of Normandy as we visited Omaha and Utah beaches and all the other sites, but I felt like I had already lived it. At least we returned in time for a proper dinner.

Tonight was to be “the night.” I’ve been through this routine too many times to count. Rafael – my handler – books me a trip. I go solo or with a companion. Either way, at some point during the journey, I get a message with directions for the drop. The package this trip is a book – a first edition copy of Ulysses by James Joyce. Why anyone would even want that book is beyond me. It is freaking unreadable. Whatever. I suspected that computer chips had been inserted into the binding or some code was scattered throughout the pages. I didn’t know or particularly care. In addition to this fancy two-week trip, which was paid in full, I got an extra ten grand. The less I knew, the better it was for me.

I received a text message while we were at the cafe in Sainte-Mére-Église, the first place in France liberated by the Allies. The exchange would happen in the château’s library at 8:00pm.

Following our final dinner of coquilles Saint-Jacques, (scallops), moules a la crème Normande, (mussels), Normandy oysters, and jove de bouef for the meat eaters, I excused myself to freshen up and went back to our room to grab the book. Jason happily stayed behind to talk with the couples from Miami and Cleveland, who I suspected were both swingers after last night when I saw Mr. Cleveland and Mrs. Miami exit the Cleveland couple’s room, which was down the hall from us. This trip appeared to be a match made in heaven for those two couples. I was glad to have an excuse to dip out. For me, one couple was more boring than the next. At least the Mexicans were amusing. I was actually considering their offer to visit them in Guadalajara. After grabbing the book from my suitcase, I headed down the hallway, stopping briefly to check my makeup.

* * * * * * * * * *

The wave of vertigo passed quickly. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror. So far from home, I longed to be home in Berlin, rather than this quaint château in eastern Normandy. At least it was better than the Russian front. I undid the top two buttons of my uniform and loosened my belt, anxious to be comfortable after such a trying day. The Americans were gaining ground, and General Rommel had suffered a grievous wound just days before. He was now back in Berlin. Most of my platoon was out on patrol, leaving only a half dozen men left to guard the château, our compound for the past year.

“Herr Wagner,” the maid called from downstairs. “Phone call for you.” It is unfair to call Madam Bourgo the maid, when she is the rightful owner of the estate, but now she is in the service of the Fatherland. “Bring me my nightcap,” I yelled down to her.

I hurried down the stairs to the salon. Michael Wittman – the most distinguished tank commander in the German army – was on the line. Just last month, at the Battle of Villers-Bocage on June 12, 1944, he took out over a dozen Allied tanks. Including his successes on the Russian front, Wittman must have eliminated over 100 enemy tanks.

“Good evening, Hauptsturnführer (Captain) Wittman. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“It is good to hear your voice, Otto,” said Wittman. “I’ll be in your area tomorrow. There is news I need to discuss with you.”

“I look forward to the visit.”

Madam Bourgo returned with my glass of Calvados. I have come to love this unique apple brandy. Bonbon, Madam’s toy poodle, jumped in my lap. As I stroked the canine’s fluffy back and rubbed behind her ears, I thought back to my days with Wittman in Kursk. France was a world away from Russia, and not a bad assignment until the Allies invaded Normandy. Now Wittman is famous. They are calling him the Black Baron.

I must have dozed off. After feeling the cold steel on my temple, I looked up. Madam Bourgo approached to take Bonbon away. Behind her stood a half dozen Americans in filthy uniforms. Have they no pride in their appearance? That bitch set me up. Instead of handing the dog over, I snapped its neck and tossed it on the ground.

“Stand up, Lieutenant Colonel Wagner. You are now in our custody,” said the man in charge. His deep brown eyes were mesmerizing.

I attempted to rise, but fell back in my chair. “Did that bitch drug me?”

Two American soldiers grabbed me under each arm, pulling me upright.

“Shoot him in the courtyard,” demanded Madam Bourgo. She picked up the lifeless animal.

“No, he’s our prisoner.”

Madam Bourgo put the dog’s body on a settee and followed us outside. After they pushed me into the back of a jeep, I watched the old woman run over. It looked like she was going to hand me something, but instead she plunged a kitchen knife into my neck. With my hands cuffed behind my back, there was nothing I could do to slow the blood that was spouting from my jugular. I observed the Americans push Madam Bourgo to the ground as the world went dark around me.

* * * * * * * * * *

What the hell is going on? Am I dreaming this shit up or losing my damn mind? I picked a sliver of spinach from my front teeth, grabbed the book from the credenza, and made my way to the library. A large painting of a naked woman with captivating brown eyes and a Siamese cat in her lap immediately distracted me. The crazy thing is that her eyes were so familiar. Where have I seen them before? Then I noticed someone sitting in a wingback chair. What the hell – it was freaking Dana!

“It’s you!” Dana laughed in my face.

We exchanged books. She also had a copy of Ulysses.

“Does anything here seem odd to you?” I asked Dana.

“What do you mean by odd?”

“I don’t know. I keep having these crazy dreams. One day I’m living during the French Revolution, the next day I’m staring at an Impression-era painting – this painting in fact.” I pointed to the naked woman. “The next thing I know, I’m a German officer during World War II.”

“That’s some crazy shit, honey. Are there any similarities in these visions?”

“Actually, there is. Every vision, dream, or whatever, takes place in this château.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. In every scenario I am stabbed to death.”

“Details, please.”

I summed up the three visions. “It is like déjá vu or something. I can’t explain it.”

“There’s one more commonality,” said Dana. “In each situation, you are a total bitch.”

“Screw you,” I snapped.

“Think about it,” said Dana. “You were a freaking Nazi general in your last life! How low can you go? Bitch, you need to change your entire life trajectory – now!”

“Just stop. I share a few strange visions, and you think you know me.”

“One more thing,” said Dana. “I don’t think Jason is the right guy for you.”

“Mind your own damn business.” I got up to leave.

“Something is off about him,” said Dana. “He’s hiding something.”

“Yeah, right.” I walked away without turning back.

“Who do you really want to be Lauren?” She called after me. “Be that person, instead of the series of snobby elites you keep replicating. It’s up to you to break the pattern.”

I headed up the stairs to the third floor where my room was located. Halfway there, Antoine appeared beside me. “Hello, Lauren. I have something to share with you.”

I looked hard at Antoine. “Have you noticed that the woman in the painting hanging in the library looks exactly like you – well, in the face anyway?”

“I like to think that she was me in a different incarnation.”

As we approached the credenza, Jason stepped out of our room. He walked over to me and grabbed the book. He then went to Antoine and planted a wet kiss on his lips.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked. I glanced at the mirror and could see the reflections of the three of us. In a flash, our likenesses evolved from one incarnation to the next. Jason morphed into Louisa, my former lady’s maid, then to Manet, the famous French painter, and finally to Madam Bourgo, the château’s previous owner; he was always the pretty one. Antoine morphed into the leader of the French mob who attacked me, then to Isabelle from the painting, and finally to the American serviceman; he was forever the wanna-be, the one who would always come in second. I watched myself morph into Countess Gerard, then to François, the abusive husband of Isabelle, and finally to Lieutenant Colonel Wagner; I was always the entitled bitch. Shit, I basically deserved everything I got – freaking karma!

“I wish I could say it’s been fun, but you’re an intolerable bitch in every life you lead,” said Jason.

“What do you mean by that – every life you lead?” I asked.

“The fake life you live in Seattle as a freelance web designer; but hey, kudos for setting up a brilliant front to disguise your illegal earnings. There’s that, and – let’s face it – your poorly executed mission as a courier.”

“Go to hell, Jason. My sour attitude on this trip is partially due to being bored silly by your tedious company. As for you, Antoine, in your short, pathetic series of lives, you never seem to break out of the realm of – how do you say – the world of middle management. At least Jason manages to achieve something of consequence life after life. As for me, I can’t help it if I always emerge as the boss – sorry bitches!”

Antoine grabbed me by my upper arms and hoisted me onto the credenza. Then Jason stepped up and head butted me into the mirror. I heard the sound of brittle, metallic glass shattering. I opened my eyes and saw the reflections of Jason and Antoine via the dagger-size shards of mirror that were stuck in their eyes and throats reflecting back into the remainder of the mirror behind me. Until gravity overtook them, and they collapsed to the floor.

“Damn girl, that curse is finally over. Let me take that from you.” Dana grabbed the book from the credenza. Mysteriously, it did not have a drop of blood on it.

Monsieur Leclerc – security at Château Mémoire – took some photos before helping me down. When the Alençon police department arrived, they took more photos and interviewed me for what felt like hours, while I was forced to continue wearing that hideous bloody dress. Fortunately, I too emerged from this tragic incident unscathed.

During the interview, I went into my best Lauren-bitch mode. When asked how this mess happened, I described how after I criticized them, Antoine lifted me unto the credenza and Jason head-butted me, slamming me into the antique mirror.”

“What exactly did you say?” The police officer asked.

“I called Antoine a pute and Jason a couillon after finding out about their affair.”

Finally released, I located Dana in the salon sipping a glass of Calvados. “Where’s the book?” I inquired.

“I passed it off to its rightful recipient.”

“Someone on this tour?”

Dana smiled, opening her eyes wide, while tilting her head and raising her shoulder in unison. The old Russian man walked over. “I understand you’ve had quite the evening. I’m sorry about your… man friend.”

“Don’t be. He was an ass.”

“Nevertheless, Ulysses would be proud of you.” He strained a small smile and left.

I turned back to Dana. “What are you doing for the next ten days? I have rooms booked in Paris, Nice, and Florence.”

“Sounds great! Can you extend your trip? I’ve always wanted to check out Malta.”

***************