The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott Page B

away; invisible save for those spinning moments when all around entered the vortex.  I hardly knew what I should do next, but I tucked the small box under my arm, and followed in her ghostly footsteps. In the inner hall I heard a voice, humming softly, like a lullaby sung to a baby as it fell asleep. I followed the sound into the bedroom.
    The armoire was wide open. A dress lay half on the bed and half on the floor, as if thrown down in temper. I put the box down on the dressing table, and the hum subsided to a hushing sibilant.  I ran my hand over the translucent white silk and fine lace of the dress. Should I gather it up and put in back in place? Something told me no – leave it be.
    “Okay,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I don’t…”
    She came from the cold light reflected by the mirror on the wall opposite. One moment she was a silvered luminosity, the next a rabble of iridescent butterflies, and then she became entire. She stood by the window gazing out. She was so real and yet…
    I was in a vacuum. I could not breathe. I saw a smaller, less graceful woman than Berthe pass straight through me, is if she had come from behind and I was not there at all. She said something, but I could not catch the words. Berthe turned and reached out. I could see the tears on her cheeks. Her eyes were great black holes of despair. She spoke, yet I did not hear her words, only knew what she was saying.
    “Racine . I don’t know what I will do without him.”
    The other woman took Berthe’s hands in her own and kissed them. I could not see her face, but knew she was a plain woman by the dress she wore and the way she had her hair up in a tight bun on her head.
    “Madam. It will take time.”
    I backed up - hit the wall with a thud.
    They looked at me in unison, and then away again. The threads of then and now were drawing tighter and I feared I would be lost in this other world. I gulped in air and clenched my hands so that I could feel my nails cutting into my palms. I wanted to escape. I wanted to be far far from here…
    …and then they were gone and the room was as cold as a New York winter when the East River threatens to freeze right over.
    I fled the apartment.
    The door was open to the street, and a broom leant against the wall. Armand Pascal stood at the bottom of the stairs. He fed a cigarette into his mouth. I smiled at him nervously. I did not want him to know I had been shaken by my experience.
    “What have you found out then?” He sneered and lit the cigarette, flicking the match outside.
    “Nothing much,” I said, hoping he would not question me further. I wanted so much to be out of there, yet I was caught in a curious web of terrifying confusion.
    “You are going out?”
    “Yes, for a coffee.”
    “You have left your coat? It is cold outside.” He took a drag on his cigarette.
    “Yes…” I glanced back up the stairs. In my rush to leave, I had left everything there: my coat, my purse, the photographs, and the box, which I knew to be on the dressing table in the bedroom. I did not want to have to go back so soon.
    “People hear things. It is not unusual in an old building.” A wry smile played on Armand’s face.
    “What do you mean?”
    He shrugged. “The pipes are old. The wood is rotten in places. My father expected you to visit him again. You did not come.” Armand took up his broom, rolled his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, and began to sweep the hall.
    “I was busy…  am busy.” Despite my reticence, I turned to go back. It would be too cold outside without my coat, and I wanted the photographs so I could show Jacques the painting and tell him about my ghosts.
    Armand flicked ash and made a face. “I would have thought you would want to hear an old man’s confession. He does not have long to live you know.”
    “Confession? What confession? What are you talking about?”
    “She liked me.” He thumbed upwards. “She called me petit mignon . That piano? The one