Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

“My dear count,” she asked, flustered with nervous excitement, “would you have the kindness to tell me whether a close relative of yours was in Rome around forty years ago? An uncle, perhaps, or even”—she hesitated—“your father?”

The false count smiled effusively with practiced insincerity. “Quite possibly, madame. My family seems encumbered with an insatiable will to travel. As for my father, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you for certain. It was hard enough for me to keep up with his touring when I was a child, and I’m afraid I am completely in the dark as to his movements before my birth.” The small herd chuckled loudly and far more generously than St. Germain’s remark merited. “Why, if I may,” he added, “do you ask?”

The curious look in her eye hadn’t dulled. “I knew a man at the time. He paid me court, you see. I still remember our first encounter,” she reminisced. “We sang a few barcaroles of his composing together, and…” A serene glimmer lit up her eyes as her mind seemed to wander back to that time. “His features, his hair, his complexion…even his carriage. He had the impress and the nobility that one only finds in the great.” She seemed genuinely startled. “I see the same, all of it, in you.”

St. Germain bowed with false modesty. “You are far too generous, madame.”

The woman waved away his words. “Please, Count. I beseech you to think about it and let me know if I was indeed in the presence of a relation of yours. The similarity is simply too uncanny to discount.”

St. Germain moved to put an end to his discomfort. He beamed at his inquisitor. “Madame, you are most kind to pay me such a compliment,” he gushed. “I will not rest until I have conjured up the identity of my illustrious relation who so impressed you.” He gave the woman a concluding half-bow, his body language coaxing her to move on, but she would not budge. She just stood there, transfixed by him.

“Most intriguing,” she muttered to herself, before asking, “I am told you also play the piano divinely, Count. Perhaps you were taught by the man I remember.”

He smiled at her, but his smile was having trouble reaching his eyes. He was about to answer when he noticed a familiar face watching him from beside the little menagerie. The woman — Thérésia de Condillac — seemed to be enjoying his little quagmire.

“Ah, there you are,” she finally exclaimed as she stepped forward, a knowing gleam in her eye. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Courteous bobs and bows and hasty introductions were exchanged before the woman hooked her arm into St. Germain’s and — with the briefest of apologies — brazenly whisked him away from his stymied tormentor.

“I hope you don’t mind my taking you away from such an ardent admirer, monsieur,” she commented as they disappeared into the crowd.

“I’m not sure I would have used the word ardent. Senile, perhaps?”

“You mustn’t be so unkind, Count.” She laughed. “Judging from her rosy countenance, she might well lead you to some half brothers you weren’t aware of.”

They made their way to the gardens, which were lit up by torches and more spinning Catherine wheels. Wisps of smoke from the pyrotechnics hung low, obscuring the nearby riverbank. Elephants, zebras, and an array of monkeys, brought in from the royal menagerie at Versailles, were on display in the sprawling gardens, symbols of omnipotence to their royal owners, who were blissfully oblivious to the metaphors of slavery and oppression the less fortunate associated with the caged animals.

They found a quiet bench that sheltered under a chestnut tree and overlooked the quay, by the river’s edge. They’d met a few weeks earlier, at Thérésia’s uncle’s house. St. Germain had sought the man out after hearing of his reputation as a keen orientalist who had a substantial collection of manuscripts from the region. They’d met again in the salon of Madame Geoffrin — coincidentally, he’d first thought, although, as the evening had progressed and her questions had become more personal, he’d been less certain of that. Not that he minded. Thérésia de Condillac was a much desired woman. She was blessed with a radiant femininity and was a childless, moneyed widow who didn’t lack suitors and who didn’t shy away from their advances.

They watched the army of revelers from a distance and exchanged pleasantries, occasionally at the expense of the more garishly costumed guests. Thérésia’s costume was as minimalist as St. Germain’s in its ambition: It consisted simply of a shawl of white feathers, which, thrown over her simple white ball dress, imbued her with the ethereal — and distinctly un-jungle-like — guise of a dove. St. Germain, wigless and head to toe in black, looked even less like the panther he claimed to be.

“My uncle tells me you’ve become a regular visitor to his house,” she eventually mentioned. “He’s most impressed by your knowledge of the Levant. He yearns to return to Constantinople, you know.”

He turned to her. She seemed to be studying his face for his response. “I can understand his missing it. There is great comfort to be had from its”—he paused as he took in the surreal scene in the distance—“simplicity.” And then, suddenly, as if to mock his very words, a fleeting image in the distance jolted him.

Through the mist from the fireworks, among the crowd of pastiche gorillas and ostriches, a pair of eyes materialized, staring straight at him, the eyes of a young man, his cheeks and forehead painted over heavily with streaks of gold and brown, his head covered by a curly blond wig that was pierced by animal ears, a thick mane of fur draped around his neck. He was peering out from among the throng like a tiger eyeing its prey through the thick blades of an African savanna.

The predator was there for only the briefest of moments before a small gaggle of guests obscured him. An instant later, after they’d passed, he was gone.

St. Germain blinked his eyes and scanned the distance, but there was no sign of the tiger. With the din from the crowd and the orchestra still pounding his senses, he asked himself if he’d even seen it in the first place. He shook the image away and focused on his companion again.

Thérésia seemed to notice his eyes wander, but didn’t react to it. “Possibly,” she just replied. “Then again, I suspect it may have more to do with his craving for some mariage à la cabine ,” she joked, referring to a form of temporary marriage that was practiced there, kabin, in which Christian women could be hired by the month. “Which,” she added with a pique of seriousness in her tone, “is something that I imagine would appeal to you too, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her candor caught him out. “I imagine it would appeal to most men,” he replied.

“Yes, but something about the impersonal, noncommittal nature of it — it seems particularly suited to you.”

Her comment went to the heart of him. Not that it was unexpected. He’d cultivated the reputation of someone who valued his independence and his privacy and who, while he enjoyed the occasional intimate dalliance, had no appetite for attachment. But the way she said it, that slight knowing, sardonic edge in her voice, in her eyes — it was as if she could see through him. Which unsettled him.

“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or as a rebuke,” he countered cautiously.

“I’d say it’s neither,” she said playfully. “Just a passing comment from an intrigued observer.”

“An observer? Am I to take it that I’m being studied, like one of these poor beasts?” he asked, waving at the nearest cage. Against his better judgment, he found himself scanning the crowd again for any sign of the prowling tiger. There was none.