The Best of Electric Velocipede by John Klima Read Free Book Online Page A

that she wore in her bonnet: it, too, was black and velvety and at first I thought it to be no more than a lifelike ornament, until I realised that the strong sweet perfume that filled the air of the parlor was emanating from its petals.
    “I do hope you’ll forgive me for imposing upon you,” the woman said. She rose, offering me a black-satin hand. “My name is Madame Greco; I have recently become a widow.”
    Behind the gauzy darkness of her veil her eyes were luminous and huge. It was impossible to tell her age, or her origins; she spoke with something of an accent, but it was not one that I recognised. I was, however, immediately captivated. Something about the timbre of her voice and the almost narcotic fragrance of the lily entranced me. I bent over her hand.
    “It is no trouble at all,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”
    I thought I detected a slight smile beneath the veil.
    “Damien died as he lived,” she told me. “Ever unexpected.”
    “And you will be wanting—arrangements?”
    She lowered her head and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief scented with violets.
    “Quite so.”
    “Then let us discuss the nature of the internment,” I murmured.
    Madame Greco duly ordered a magnificent coffin and, pressing my hand with a pretty gratitude, left. I did not feel that this was the appropriate time to press talk of the Device upon her. I fully intended to leave a note for Sayers to remind him of this fact, but thinking about Madame Greco brought to mind a number of poetic notions, and I became distracted. In the end, no note was written.
    *
    It was shortly before Christmas that I set eyes on Madame Greco once more, as I was walking to our father’s house for a party. I disliked these family occasions, which usually involved a series of barbed jibes on my father’s part relating to my choice of profession. I thus took the long way through Highgate, past the cemetery, and it was already past twilight when I reached the gates. Upon glancing through the iron tracery, I was vaguely gratified to see in the dim light of the gas-lamps that a number of recent graves—in addition to handsome marble monuments—bore the small red flag and electric bell that signalled the presence of the Device. It was then that I caught sight of Madame Greco.
    She was hurrying along the path that led to the edges of the cemetery, past the older mausoleums. She halted in front of an ornate tombstone in the form of a pyramid. These had been fashionable at one time, but had now fallen somewhat out of favor. I saw her run her hand over the marble facade, then move on down the hill to a much fresher patch of earth. She fell to her knees beside the grave and, moved by a pang of pity, I remained to watch her. She scrabbled at the soil.
    “James?” I heard her say. “Have you woken? Do you hear me?”
    I frowned. I distinctly remembered her remarking that her husband’s name was ‘Damien.’ She paused for a moment, listening, with her ear to the ground. She sighed, rose to her feet, moved on. I watched her as she visited three more graves in turn. Apparently none of them were clients of my brother, for these graves were undecorated by the Device. She scratched and clawed, until the black satin gloves were torn and her hands were bloody.
    “Wake!” she whispered, “Why do you not wake?”
    Then, with a start of surprise, I saw the earth at the base of the last grave begin to stir. My heart jumped.
    “Damien?” I heard her fierce whisper across the silent graveyard. “Damien!”
    Next moment, the soil rolled aside like a blanket and a man was standing there. I saw a white face and pale hands, before he was enveloped in a long dark coat that flapped down upon him like a shadow. Madame Greco was speaking to him in a language that I did not recognise. He turned, and I heard him begin to sniff and snuffle, like a hunting dog.
    It suddenly occurred to me that I was not in the most suitable location to encounter