The Forbidden Read online

  THE

  Forbidden

  F. R. TALLIS

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Part One: Damnation

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Part Two: Possession

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Part Three: Redemption

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Wayne Brookes, Catherine Richards, Clare Alexander, Sally Riley, Steve Matthews and Nicola Fox for their valuable comments on the first and subsequent drafts of The Forbidden. I would also like to thank Brendan King for answering questions about J.-K. Huysmans’s characters in Là-Bas, Owen Davies for answering questions on magic books and the capture of demons in glass, and Dr Yves Steppler for alerting me to the existence of TTX.

  PROLOGUE

  1872

  Saint-Sébastien,

  an island in the French Antilles

  During the great siege of Paris I had worked alongside one of the Poor Sisters of the Precious Blood. Her name was Sister Florentina and it was she who had written to me, advising of a vacancy that had arisen for a junior doctor at the mission hospital on Saint-Sébastien. Perhaps it was because of the dismal autumn weather and the heavy rain that lashed against my windows, but I immediately fell into a reverie of sunshine and exotic landscapes. Throughout the day, these images played on my mind and I began to take the prospect of Saint-Sébastien more seriously. I envisaged learning about rare diseases, visiting leper colonies and embarking on a kind of medical adventure. That evening, sitting in a shabby restaurant with sticky floorboards and frayed tablecloths, I looked around at my glum companions and noticed that, like me, they were all regulars: two dowdy seamstresses, a music teacher in a badly fitting dress and a moribund accountant with greasy hair. By the time I had finished my first course, I was already composing my letter of application and, two weeks later, I was standing on the deck of the paddle steamer Amerique, a vessel of the General Transatlantic Company, bound for Havana.

  The Saint-Sébastien mission hospital consisted of a low, whitewashed building in which the patients were cared for by nuns under the general direction of a senior medical officer, Georges Tavernier. Outpatients were seen in a wooden cabin just removed from the hospital, and next to this was a tiny church. Every Sunday, a priest arrived in an open carriage to celebrate Mass.

  My new superior, Tavernier, was an easy-going fellow and dispensed with formalities as soon as we met. When I addressed him with the customary terms of respect, he laughed and said, ‘There’s no need for that here, Paul. You’re not in Paris now.’ He was a bachelor in his middle years, of world-weary appearance, with sagging pouches beneath his eyes and curly, greying hair. In repose, his features suggested tiredness, fatigue, even melancholy, but as soon as he spoke his expression became animated. He was a skilled surgeon, and during his ten-year residency on Saint-Sébastien he had acquired a thorough understanding of tropical diseases and their treatment. Indeed, he was the author of several important papers on the subject and had invented a very effective anaesthetic ointment that could be used as an alternative to morphine.

  The hospital was situated some distance from the capital, on the edge of a forest which descended by way of gentle undulations to a mangrove swamp. Our only neighbours occupied a hinterland of scattered, primitive villages, so it was fortunate that Tavernier and I enjoyed each other’s company. He often invited me to dine at his villa, which was perched high on the slopes above the hospital, an old plantation owner’s residence that had seen better days – an edifice of faded stucco, crumbling pillars and cracked bas-relief. We would sit on the terrace, smoking and drinking aperitifs. The view was spectacular: a solitary road winding its way through lush vegetation down to Port Basieux, the busy harbour, boats swaying at anchor, the glittering expanse of the sea. As the sun sank, a mulatto girl would light hurricane lamps and bring us plates piled high with giant lobster and crab, mangos, pineapples, sapodillas and yams. The air was scented with hibiscus and magnolia and sometimes we were visited by armies of brightly coloured frogs or a curious iguana.

  Tavernier was keen to hear about my experiences during the Paris siege, and he listened attentively.

  ‘The winter was merciless. People in the poor districts – driven mad through starvation – were breaking into cemeteries, digging up corpses and making gruel with pulverized bones.’ I paused to light a cigar. One evening, while walking back from the hospital to my lodgings, I came across a shocking scene. A building had been shelled and the road was obstructed by fallen masonry. Through the smoke, I could see men rushing about, trying to put out fires. I climbed up the bank of rubble and, on reaching the top, saw a pale arm sticking out from the wreckage below. I scrambled down and began removing the bricks that were piled around it. The skin was smooth and it was obvious from the delicacy of the elongated fingers that they belonged to a woman. “Madame!” I shouted, “Can you hear me?” I took her hand in mine and pulled a little. To my great horror the entire arm came away. It had been detached from its owner by the blast and the lady to whom it belonged was nowhere to be seen.’

  Tavernier shook his head and lamented the folly of war; however, his mood could change quite suddenly. The siege had exposed profound social inequalities and I was illustrating this point with a revealing anecdote. ‘Along the boulevards, the best restaurants remained open and when the meat ran out, they simply replenished their stock with zoo animals. Patrons were offered elephant steak, stewed beaver and camel fricassée.’

  Tavernier slapped his thighs and roared with laughter, as if the horrors I had only just described were quite forgotten. I came to realize that, although his clinical judgement was sound, in other respects Tavernier could be quite wayward.

  Naturally, I had wondered why it was that such a talented individual was content to languish in relative obscurity. He was not devout and his specialist knowledge would have made him a valuable asset in any of the better universities. I began to suspect that there might be a story attached to his self-imposed exile and indeed, this proved to be the case.

  One night, we were sitting on Tavernier’s terrace, beneath a blue-black sky and the softly glowing phosphorescence of the Milky Way. A moist heat necessitated the constant application of a handkerchief to the brow. Again, much of our conversation concerned Paris, but our talk petered out and we sat for a while, listening to the strange chirrups and calls that emanated from the trees. Tavernier finished his rum and said, ‘I can never go back.’

  Oh?’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘My departure was . . .’ he paused, considering whether to proceed. ‘Undignified.’ I did not press him and waited. ‘A matter of honour, you see. I was indiscreet and the offended husband demanded satisfaction. Twenty-five paces – one shot, the pistol to be brought up on command.’

  ‘You killed someone?’

  Tavernier shook his head. ‘He didn’t look like a duellist. In fact, he looked like a tax inspector, quite portly, with a ruddy complexion. After agreeing to his conditions, I learned that he had once been a soldier. You can imagine what effect this information had on me.’

  I nodded sympathetically.

  ‘The night before,’ continued Tavernier, ‘I couldn’t sleep and drank far too much brandy. When dawn broke, I looked in the shaving mirror and hardly recognized myse
lf: bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks, my hands were trembling. A thought occurred to me: This time tomorrow you will be dead. My seconds arrived at seven o’clock. “Are you all right?” they asked.

  ‘“Yes,” I replied, “quite calm.”

  ‘“Have you had breakfast?”

  ‘“No,” I replied. “I’m not hungry.” Another gentleman, the doctor, was waiting in the landau. I shook his hand and thanked him for coming. When we got to the Bois du Vésinet, the other carriage was already there. I looked out of the window and saw four men in fur coats, stamping their feet and blowing into their hands to keep them warm. My seconds got out first, and then the doctor, but I found that I couldn’t move. The doctor came back and said, “What’s the matter?”

  ‘I was paralysed. It was obvious that I wouldn’t be able to fulfil my obligation. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not feeling very well – a fever, I think. I’m afraid we’ll have to call it off.” I was taken back to my apartment, where I spent the rest of the day in bed. In the morning I made arrangements to leave and have not been back since.’ Tavernier gazed up at the zenith. A shooting star fell and instantly vanished. ‘I disgraced myself. But at least I’m alive.’

  ‘Honour is less important these days,’ I said, ‘now that the whole country has been disgraced. You could return, if you really wanted. And who would remember you? Ten years is a long time.’

  ‘No,’ said Tavernier. ‘This is my home now. Besides, there are other things that keep me here.’

  I didn’t ask him what these ‘other things’ were, but I was soon to find out.

  That year, the carnival season began late, and I was aware of a growing atmosphere of excitement. Preparations were being made in the villages and some of the patients were eager to be discharged for the festivities. I paid little attention to all of this activity, assuming that the season would pass without my involvement. Then, to my great surprise, I received an invitation to attend a ball.

  Oh, yes,’ said Tavernier. ‘The de Fonteneys always invite us.’

  ‘The de Fonteneys?’

  ‘They’re local gentry,’ he pointed towards the volcanic uplands. ‘Piton-Noir.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  Of course I’m going. I go every year. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’

  It had been a long time since I had attended a social function and I felt increasingly nervous as the date approached. The de Fonteneys were a very old family, having settled in the Caribbean during the reign of Louis XIV. I was not accustomed to mixing with such people and thought that I would appear gauche or unmannered. Tavernier told me to stop being ridiculous. When the day of the ball finally arrived, we were allowed to use the mother superior’s chaise, so at least we were spared the indignity of arriving on foot. We took the Port Basieux road and, on reaching the coast, began a steep ascent. A large, conical mountain loomed up ahead, rising high above the cultivated terraces. This striking landmark was La Cheminée; its sporadic eruptions, over a period of many thousands of years, had created the Saint-Sébastien archipelago. A ribbon of twisting grey smoke rose from its summit.

  We reached a crossroads, at which point the chaise came to a juddering halt.

  ‘Straight on, Pompée,’ said Tavernier.

  Our driver seemed uncomfortable. He began to jabber in a patois which I found difficult to follow. Something was disturbing him and he was refusing to proceed. He pointed at the road and jumped down from his box.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, man,’ Tavernier called out. ‘Get back up there and drive!’

  More fulminating had no effect, so Tavernier and I alighted to see what Pompée was looking at. A primitive design had been made on the ground with flour. It consisted of a crucifix, wavy lines and what appeared to be a row of phallic symbols.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘A vèvè,’ said Tavernier. ‘A bokor – a native priest – has put it here to invoke certain spirits. Pompée thinks we will offend them if we pass it.’

  Is there an alternative route?’

  ‘No. This is the only road to Piton-Noir.’

  Tavernier and his servant continued to argue and as they did so I heard the faint sound of a drum. Pompée stopped gesticulating and looked off in the direction from where the slow beat was coming. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the looming volcano made me feel uneasy.

  ‘Are we in danger?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Tavernier replied. ‘It’s just superstitious nonsense.’

  He stomped over to the vèvè and scraped his heel through its centre. The effect on Pompée was immediate and melodramatic. He cowered and his eyes widened in terror. Tavernier kicked at the ground, producing a cloud of flour and red dust, and when the vèvè was utterly destroyed he turned and said, ‘See? It’s gone.’ I had expected Pompée to respond with anger, but instead, he now seemed anxious for his master’s safety. He removed an amulet from his pocket, an ugly thing of beads and hair, and insisted that Tavernier take it. Tavernier accepted the charm with an ironic smile and we returned to the chaise. Pompée leaped up onto his box and struck the horse’s rump. He was eager to get away, and for some obscure reason so was I. When the steady pulse of the drumbeat faded, I was much relieved.

  We entered the de Fonteney estate through an iron gate and joined a train of carriages. An avenue of torches guided us to an impressive facade of high windows and scalloped recesses, and as we drew closer, the strains of a chamber orchestra wafted over the balustrade. We were announced by a liveried servant and welcomed by the Comte de Fonteney, who addressed us with the slow finesse of an aristocrat. With brisk efficiency, we were then ushered into a dazzling ballroom full of mirrors, gilt embellishments and the portraits of bewigged ancestors. The dancing was already under way. I proceeded to the other end of the ballroom and stood on my own, watching the revellers. In due course, a young woman appeared at my side and we began to exchange pleasantries. She was small and strangely artificial, like a doll. Her eyelashes were long and her ox-bow lips were the purple-red of a ripe cherry. I asked her to dance and she offered me her hand. Her name was Apollonie. Afterwards, she introduced me to her cousins, all of whom were of a similar age and dressed in lustrous silks. They surrounded me, like exotic birds, with open, quivering fans and asked me many questions about Paris: what were the society ladies wearing, where did they shop and which operettas were most popular? I allowed myself a little inventive licence in order to retain their attention. At midnight, the ball ended and I went outside with Tavernier to wait for our chaise. I had enjoyed myself and was reluctant to leave.

  ‘Ah,’ said Tavernier. ‘You are thinking of that coquette I saw you dancing with. And why wouldn’t you: she was very pretty. But I’m afraid it can’t go any further. We are only welcome here once a year and, if I’m not mistaken, your little friend was the governor’s daughter.’ I sighed and he gripped my arm. ‘Don’t be downhearted. Look, there’s Pompée. Might I suggest that we stop off in Port Basieux. I know some places there that I’m sure will cheer you up.’

  We drove down to the harbour and kept going until we came to the docks. Behind the warehouses were some narrow streets. Tavernier ordered Pompée to stop outside a crudely painted shack and tossed him a coin. I could hear the muffled sound of carousing from inside. ‘Wait here,’ said Tavernier to the driver, ‘and don’t drink too much.’ I followed Tavernier into the shadows, traipsing down alleys and passageways until we came to a shabby building with shuttered windows. We walked around to a side entrance, where, hanging from a post, was a candle burning in a red paper lantern. Tavernier knocked and we were admitted into the hallway by a plump middle-aged woman, wearing an orange silk turban and paste jewellery. She greeted Tavernier warmly and led us up a staircase to a small room containing only some wicker chairs and a small card table. We sat down, lit cigars and five minutes later two women entered, one a negress, the other a mulatto. They were carrying bottles of rum and wore no shoes or stockings on their feet. Tavernier reached into his p
ocket, took out Pompée’s amulet and handed it to me with a wide smile. ‘Here, take this.’ ‘Why are you giving that to me?’ I asked.

  ‘The last thing I want right now,’ he said, ‘is protection from wickedness.’

  The following night, I found myself dining again with Tavernier. Nothing was said about the brothel: it was as though we had never been there. The heat was oppressive and I was being eaten alive by mosquitoes. After we had finished our meal, my companion leaned across the table and said, ‘Why did you become a doctor, Paul?’ He had been drinking excessively and his speech was slurred.

  ‘My father was a doctor, as was his father before him. It was always assumed that I would uphold the family tradition.’ I was not being entirely candid and Tavernier sensed this. His eyes narrowed and he made a gesture, inviting me to continue. ‘When I was a child, perhaps no more than eight or nine, my father took me to an old church. It must have been situated somewhere in Brittany, which was where we usually went for our summer holidays. The nave was long and empty. On both sides were arches and, above these, high, plastered walls that had been decorated with some kind of painting. At first, all that I could see was a procession of pale figures, hands joined, against a background of ochre. It reminded me of that nursery entertainment. You must have seen it done: whereby artfully cut, folded paper can be pulled apart to reveal a chain of connected people. As my eyes adapted to the poor light, I became aware that every other figure was a skeleton. My father told me that the mural was called a Dance of Death. He crouched down, so that his head was next to mine, and identified the different characters: friar, bishop, soldier, constable, poor man, moneylender. “Everyone must die,” said my father. “From the most powerful king, down to the lowliest peasant, Death comes for everyone.” I was beginning to feel frightened and experienced a strong desire to run back to the porch. “But look at that fellow there,” my father continued, pointing his finger, “the fellow wearing long robes, do you see him?” His voice had become warmer. “How is he different from the rest?” Where my father was pointing, I saw a figure, flanked, not by two skeletons, but by a man and a woman. He was the only human participant in the dance who was untouched by Death. “Do you know who he is?” my father asked. I had no idea. “He is the doctor. Only the doctor can persuade Death to leave and come back another day; only the doctor has such power.” From that moment onwards, my destiny was set.’