Muse 4 Beyond Shame 1

It's been a while since I continued posting chapters, but don't worry, the story is finished and translated. Due to your kind and positive reactions, I paused posting chapters to investigate possibilities of self publication. I plan to do so shortly, but will continue posting the second half of the novel here.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. © All Rights Reserved.

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Travelling to Cologne, 29 June

In the morning, we leave Pyrmont by train. A colourful procession of fifty people in six carriages. Security and domestic staff, as well as musicians and courtesans, lend the ensemble the appearance of a travelling circus. Not being taken seriously by your political enemies has its advantages.

While my fellow passengers fail to provide the impression of a noble entourage, the train on which we are travelling does: a garish court train in royal blue I have on loan from a close friend. It's a palace on wheels, with an interior more reminiscent of the Palace of Versailles than a modern means of transport. A means of transport with diplomatic immunity, which will come in handy at border crossings. It will be a journey combining the pleasant with the useful.

"Damian, Dami, Damiaaan, open up, I know you're in there," a child's voice on the other side of the door shouts. The train makes a stop to refuel water, allowing passage between carriages.

Milena jerks awake from her nap. "Who is that?" she says, yawning as she stretches.

"The siren that is Claire." I sigh and rise to open the balcony door.

Grumbling, Claire storms into the spacious lounge that takes up most of our carriage. "Finally! You kept the prettiest one for yourself, I see." The lavishly decorated cabin in gold and plush loses her interest as she catches sight of my companion.

"Is that her?" she asks, her forefinger pointing at a startled Milena. Claire often has that effect on people. She is small and slender, dressed for the occasion as a proper schoolgirl. She looks no older than twelve, with bright blue eyes, short blonde hair in a ponytail and the uncontrolled behaviour of a ten-year-old.

"Lara, this is Claire. Claire, pointing is rude," I say in vain.

Making it clear to Claire what is appropriate is just as useful as redirecting an avalanche with a friendly request. She spent two boring hours on a train. Besides, Milena is much more interesting, so she ignores me. "All the girls are talking about you. That you're the new one, and he's in love with you. So I wanted to see you," she rattles.

Milena barely has time to recover from the shock as the girl studies her like a captured butterfly.

"You're beautiful," Claire says, "are you in love with him?" Before Milena can think about her answer, she continues. "Have you two fucked already?"

"Yes, we fucked," I say, hoping to relieve the besieged Milena. I achieve a minor success.

Claire turns to me with a defiant glare. Gone is the ten-year-old child. I meet the gaze of a mature young woman. "When are we going to fuck?"

"We're not going to fuck, Claire. Just try to act normal. If you can't behave, the trip to the zoo is off."

"But the train is so boooring." Claire the girl is back.

"Why don't you practise?" I say.

"In a moving train, sure," she says and performs a perfect pirouette.

"It stopped."

"Yes, hilarious. In a minute we'll be riding again," she says. "How long will it be until Cologne?"

"I estimate another hour. You know that."

"The zoo huh, you promised." She admonishes me with a strict forefinger.

I relent. "The zoo. If you behave in company."

"I also want to see the cannibals."

"Mbororo, Claire. They're not cannibals. They're just people like you and me."

"They are savages," the girl says and turns into the young woman again, her posture calm and controlled. "And we'll have dinner at father's."

It remains a strange sensation, though I've seen it many times. Even her voice is different, lower. "Djembé is Mbororo. Is he a savage? Let's talk about father later, shall we?" I ask, realising I've fallen into a trap.

Claire smiles at me like a cat that caught the canary. "Father has more reason to be ashamed than me, don't you think?"

"That's true, but even then, your story is not one you share with everyone," I say, but it's pointless.

With her head tilted, she fillets me with her gaze. A fake smile plays on her lips. "Well, well, who would have guessed?" She turns to Milena with renewed interest.

Milena undergoes it in silent confusion. She doesn't know how to respond to the woman in children's clothes.

Claire does. "In her eyes, I am a brash, creepy child. She thinks I'm weird anyway, so she'd better know why," she says, as if Milena isn't there. Then she turns to me again. "And you can tell her."

I have enough of Claire's games. "After this introduction, you leave me little choice, don't you think?"

She looks at me, calculating. "That depends. If you are in love with her, you'll spare her the details. If she is in love with you, she doesn't want to know them, either."

A steam whistle announces the end of our stop and saves Milena and I from further scrutiny, but I'm afraid the damage is done. "You have to return to your compartment. We'll be leaving soon." I open the door to the balcony for Claire.

"Once you've told Lara, an outing with the three of us will show you're not the creep she thinks you are," Claire says, slamming the trap shut. With a villainous smile, she waves to Milena and skips out of the carriage. "Bye Lara, see you at the zoo later," she says with the child's voice before I close the door behind her.

With a deep sigh, I turn to the bewildered Milena. "You have a few questions, I guess."

"I have a few questions after a cup of coffee," she says.

At the buffet, I pour two cups and hand one to her. She takes a cautious sip as the train starts moving again. "All right. Who was that, and what is a child doing in your entourage?" she says in a slow, gruff voice. She's not in the mood for a pleasant conversation. Neither am I, another effect Claire has on me when she plays her games.

"I have no children of my own, but if anyone can claim that title, it's Claire. Although my half-sister is more her foster mother than I am her foster father. There is a history they share, though. A guest of the House abused Claire at a young age."

"Children, Damian? Really?"

I don't spare myself. After all, I promised to be honest. "I met a prelate with a penchant for children. I provided him with the opportunity to wrestle with his demons."

"How?" she says sharply. "With Claire?"

"There was a lady amongst the staff who had no objection to play the part of a young girl. Claire's mother."

"There are limits that apply to everyone, regardless of their desires. This is one, don't you think?" Her gaze is as icy as her question.

I sigh and take a sip of coffee. "I saw no harm in it. If two adults play their game to the delight of both parties, I have no issue with it."

"Nice of you," she says. I ignore her sarcasm.

"Three years later, Claire's mother fell seriously ill. The prelate, who meanwhile had made a considerable career, did not leave her side for weeks and administered the last sacraments. Doing so, he gained my respect. Until we found a letter addressed to her daughter. There had been rumours about a child, and the letter itself didn't surprise me. The prelate allegedly arranged a foster family, so why hadn't she given the letter to him? When he didn't show interest in another candidate to play the game he enjoyed so much, I decided to investigate. That's how I found out that he is Claire's father. That there was no foster family. He traded the mother for her daughter."

"You reported him to the authorities, I hope."

"With what? Of Claire's existence, there was no proof. Her mother was dead. The letter didn't mention the prelate. It was my word against the word of a respected church father. I had something else, though. Photos of him and the mother in flagrante delicto, with her dressed as a girl."

"Blackmail," she says, "from the list of crimes you are allegedly involved in. The main reason for your camera obscura, I presume?"

I nod. "It's a tool I rarely use. If only because blackmailing people with their desires goes against everything I stand for."

Crossing her arms, she draws her conclusion. "And not because you could shut the joint down, if it became known you're photographing guests while they enjoy their pleasures."

There was little point in denying it. "That too. But the case left me no choice. And so I met Claire for the first time, a wolf child of a vicious predator. She was eight when we rescued her. It took months before we could talk with her. All credit to Anna who, with endless patience, pulled her out of the deepest hole."

"And then you turned him in?"

"It was pointless. When we found Claire, she couldn't testify, and when she finally could, she didn't want to. The photos could destroy his reputation, but they were not evidence of a crime."

"And tonight you both enjoy dinner with him. All's well that ends well?"

I smile bitterly. Milena wants the whole story, and I don't skip a detail. "I guess I don't have to worry about infatuation from your side."

"What you have to worry about is me getting out at the next station and blow the whistle on the whole affair. Including your camera obscura." It is no idle threat. Angry red spots colour her face with her mouth drawn in a stern line. She means it. "Who says he hasn't found a new victim to unleash his sick mind on?"

"Claire," I say. "Once a year, we visit her father to avenge what he has done to her. He allows it because otherwise I reveal his predilections, and she is a skilled sadist. She's learned from the best." I'll leave aside for the moment who has the stronger claim to that title. Her father or my half-sister. "He robbed her of her youth in a terrible way. She makes sure he spends his old age in fear. I think she is worse off than him. He can always decide to end it, although his faith forbids him to do so. In fact, I hope that one day she will no longer feel the need to visit him."

"Jesus Christ, Damian. Was that the best solution you could think of? Have you ever thought of giving her a future in a normal environment again?"

I nod and take the last sip of my cup. The coffee only in part the reason for my bitter aftertaste. "You can try a foster family only once. Her intended parents were sweet people, but they couldn't handle Claire, and she couldn't handle building up a family bond with strangers again. I'm afraid normal is no longer an option for Claire. You and I have boundaries that define us as human beings, even if you don't know where they are. She will have to build them brick by brick before she can feel safe."

"How old is she now?"

"Fifteen. That doesn't mean much with her, as you've noticed. In some ways, she is much older and wiser. She tries to be the child she never was, with a visit to the zoo, for example."

It remains silent for a long time. Milena stares out the window, not seeing anything. The rhythmic cadence of the rails counts down the kilometres to Cologne like clockwork. The first and maybe last stop on our journey. Whatever she decides, I won't stop her. If I am to be judged by someone for my crimes, Milena seems a fine choice.

"You were also a mere pawn in this drama and you did what you could to resolve it. But that's not why you feel guilty, is it?"

Now it was my turn to study the view. "No."

"When did you understand that your manipulations with your father and your half-sister could have led to similar horrors? That you should be grateful to your father for keeping the honour to himself?"

"Not then. Later I did. Even though my father made other choices, Anna sensed the feelings he had for her. It's also why Anna got Claire out of her shell."

Milena passes her judgement. "If Anna has forgiven you for that, then who am I to play the part of avenging angel? Apparently neither of us is in love," she says with a wry smile. "Which, given the situation, is probably for the best."

Cologne, 29 July

The visit to the zoo is bizarre. Claire, in her role as cheerful ten-year-old girl, enjoying the outing and your attention as a doting father. I'm cast as a taciturn, brooding mother. Our dysfunctional little family is complete. You try to talk with me, but you soon realise you need to leave me alone.

Your history with Claire has shocked me. Even though I can keep up appearances just fine, a light-hearted conversation requires too much of my acting skills. Yours, on the other hand, are outstanding. No one would suspect what a monstrous story binds the two of you together. It is because you aren't acting. As a girl, Claire loves her foster father, and you are full of affection and attention for your foster child. Patiently, you answer all her questions about things she should have learnt a long time ago, while she knows about things you wouldn't wish on anyone. You are a better father than many real fathers I know.

I eventually forgive you for making your gross errors of judgement. No, I accept them, that's a better word. Your failures are not mine to forgive. I said it on the train, but now it rings true. As an outcast, you take good care of the outcasts you include in your entourage, or at least as well as you can. Claire was right. It's a relief to see you two like this.

---

"I think it's a disgusting display, to be honest. I thought we abolished slavery, but they are treated like animals," Milena says.

It's hot in the large pavilion. The venue is packed; the exhibition featuring the bloodthirsty Mbororo people is a great success. On stage, the two naked members of the tribe, a man and a woman, capture everyone's attention. The sheen of sweat covering their bodies reflects the light of bright lamps above. Covered in ornate scars common in their culture, they cast threatening glances at the audience. Their black skin contrasts with the two men in white lab coats who are supposed to be scientists taking measurements.

I cannot help but think of Yvette working on Milena with her measuring tape. The ringmaster reports their findings to the interested public. He explains the differences between bloodthirsty cannibals and cultivated Europeans with ardent fervour. It all looks very responsible and scientific, behind the bars that separate the audience from the event on stage.

"It's a performance," I say.

"In a cage?"

"Part of the show. Believe me, these dangerous cannibals are actors who, forced by circumstances of course, make their living like this. Like clowns in the circus."

"What about their scars? I suppose they're also for the show?"

"No, it's part of their culture, similar to tattoos worn by sailors. They are literally marked by life: during an initiation ritual, to fight diseases or to protect themselves from evil spirits. A lot less barbaric compared to the scars I gained during my time in the army."

I lost Claire in the bustling audience. She wriggled her way to the stage between the people. She behaved exemplary today, so I'm not worried. I hope the illusion of our outing was as pleasant for her as it was for me. I'm less sure about Milena, but she seems to have come to terms with the situation. We are talking to each other again.

"How do you know this?" Milena says.

"I know one who told me. In fluent French," I say.

"The one you were talking to Claire about?"

"Djembé. Before he started working in the House, he performed in shows like this."

On stage, the measurements provided the required evidence. The Caucasian race is indeed superior to all others. Time for a fertility dance, performed by five Mbororo, accompanied by snare drums that look like big banjos. It does not surprise me that the most beautiful men and women in the group enact the dance. The rules of theatre are relentless: give your audience what it's paying for.

"If he enjoyed it so much, why does he work for you?" Milena asks over the singing and rhythmic sound of drums.

"He's not averse to sex. Compared to us, their culture is a lot less inhibited. And I pay better."

Milena smirks. "It had nothing to do with him being publicly humiliated in a show like this one, did it?"

I take Milena's hand and lead her through the throng to a quieter area where we can converse without being overheard. Unfortunately, we have to exchange our view of the stage for a view that faces the audience. "I wonder who should feel humiliated here. The Mbororo who show customs and habits of their people, or the audience who revel in naked men and women dancing on stage, with culture and science as an excuse to make the show palatable. Did you feel humiliated when you danced for me?"

"No. Did you?" Milena says as she turns to face me.

"Not humiliated. Humbled maybe, because you did it for me."

She smiles, the first smile since the train ride. "Then again, I did it for you alone. The intention was different. This is exhibiting people like monkeys, so you can feel superior." Her faint smile evaporates.

"That's where you are right. When Darwin showed that differences in physique or skin colour are determined by environment, we Europeans needed other excuses to exploit our fellow man in our colonies. By showing that these savages are closer to apes than we are, for example. This kind of performance primes people's minds for the German Empire's colonial aspirations."

I turn her around by her shoulder and we both gaze at the enraptured audience. "But look at the spectators. Beneath that shroud of scientific interest, you can see lust. There isn't a single adult in the audience who doesn't fantasise about bedding the dancing men or women on stage. Not even you and me. The best proof of Darwin's theory we're all equal. That's not how you look at monkeys. Well, except for the odd one out."

When the dance performance ends, Claire appears next to us. Her expression does not bode well. The sweet, curious girl that joined us the whole afternoon has left. "I do like those scars. Maybe a nice gift for dad this year?"

---

The history of Claire, and your role in it, have thrown me more off balance than many of the rough games you played with me. You and Claire went to your macabre dinner with the prelate. It is part of the occasionally pitch-black world you dragged me into. The real world, without the veneer of civilisation I mistook for reality.

I asked you to show me; I wanted to know, but wouldn't I have been happier if I hadn't known? I miss my own children. I also miss that safe cocoon I left them in. Do I long for the false boundaries I had before? No. No matter how painful, it is better this way. Better this, than living the lie my life was before.

Being alone in the hotel room, I miss you as well. Your tenderness, your comforting arm around me, and your grateful look when we have played our game.

---

Cologne, 30 July

In the morning, I wake up next to you. Apparently, you returned late, because you are still fast asleep. I smile, happy to have you back, and pull the sheets covering you. Slow, trying not to wake you as I reveal your body. Sitting in a chair with my knees raised, I study you. It is strange to see you like this, vulnerable and innocent.

I pick up my diary to capture you. It is nice to sketch again. I missed it, especially yesterday at the zoo. Drawing is also a way for me to organise my head, to give things a proper place. Unfortunately, I can't see your bright, dreamy eyes. I have to make do with your long eyelashes, your full, almost feminine lips and your nose that seems a bit too small because of the high cheekbones, which make your face more angular than it is. Yvette wouldn't have much trouble to turn you in a beautiful woman, if your chin wouldn't give your gender away.