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\ \ Jean \
\ \ Claude \
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--==\ \ ,,i!!i,
''"'',,}{,,
Diego Alvarez was a man they thought a Spaniard,
yet I believe he was never a man at all.
Forgive me Father for I write to you a final time. The man aforementioned is my killer. At least he will be when his bullet claims my life. I know you warned me against dueling. That my pride and arrogance will be the death of me, warning that God had me on a better path and the one I choose led to naught but my damnation. With great sorrow I confess that you were right.
In Bordeaux of course was where this occurred, your travels to Germany to deal with the ilk of Protestants having only been a month ago. Since then, I tried to take your advice. I strayed from the bars and finer wines since the death of my last opponent. You advised placing myself in trouble’s way was as much me looking for a fight as the man who demanded satisfaction. I confess, it was with pleasure that I smiled at his fiancé where he could see, perhaps longer than appropriate. I had no desire for his woman, but I knew the type of man he was, waiting at the bar for his insult. I knew if I replied he would challenge, and I would choose the pistol. Finally, when he died, leaving that girl estranged, I was certain of my reward; Accolades, applause, and the favor of his rival for her hand.
Selfish as I am, I have tried to learn my lesson. With due diligence I strayed from the halls and clubs, sufficing with the new fad of coffee houses along the promenade. I listened to strange talk of science and tiny rooms that make up the universe. Sounding like madness to me, but I sipped my bitter drink and said hello.
Over the weeks I did hear rumors. A man coming into town of dark skin and hair, his clothes hanging off him like a common cur. A visage thrown up from the sea like bile from peasants drunk at dawn. He’d invite himself into places higher than his station. When questioned, he would insult his provoker’s mother. He killed three men I knew well. A black sword from Portugal rending their blood by the graves on the edge of town.
Yet, despite my friends dying, I stayed inside. No, forgive me father. Now is not the time for lies. I did not consider these men friends. Men of stature seldom have true companions. Truth be told, when I learned of their deaths, I sipped my drink and schemed all the more. Benoit’s death would lead to his stake in shipping falling to his competitors. Men who owed me favors I would call upon if in need. Henri was unfortunate yet I was certain his sister would be in dire need of comfort. A beautiful woman I had no issue attending to. Claude was a drunkard who deserved it yet after him I was certain if I let havoc run its course, the only one left alive on our little board was me. I even laughed to myself, patting myself on the back for hearing your advice. “Stay away from bloodshed, and you will be rewarded.” You said, “Fall to temptation- I am certain you’ll suffer dearly.”
So, I stayed. I am no coward of course. I have stepped in front of death numerous times and still came out the victor. As our former emperor once said, “Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.” It did not help however, the rumors I was hearing. Diego, as I learned his name through hearsay, had a knack for knowing that which he should not. Despite this, whenever the town guard came to put him down, he was gone. The one time a captain found him standing in town square, Diego looked at him without a care, smiling at him with an evil grin, as though they kept the same companions. To say such thoughts would have me hanged, but to do so would now be a mercy, so I say it again. Diego had some power over that man. He sneered at the captain, as though he dared him to utter Diego’s name. According to witnesses, he never did. The captain, looked at his boots and scurried well away.
Whoever Diego had in his pocket, I wanted no part of it. All I had to do was sit back, sip my coffee, assuming he’d be out of port soon enough for slavery, privateering or outright piracy. However the devil made his due. That was until he entered the Cafe de Procope.
The wooden doors were thrown open with a gust of hateful intent. The men within the cafe stopped mid-sentence as the women looked to their protectors. Women being allowed in such places was controversial and some even wondered if our intruder was the town guard. But no, it was that greasy contemptible sewer rat hanging drunk within the doorway. His hair hung in strands like kelp cast ashore. His clothes and breath stunk with rum, sweat, and sea. His eyes, despite the liquor were sharp and clear as his voice barked like a hound fresh on the scent, roaring my name across the room. “Jean Claude.”
I did not move a muscle. Not because I was not disturbed, but because I knew my station, and knew better to play it carefully. I drank with non-chalance, ignoring his command.
“There you are.” His sword still to his side he tore through the crowd. You could have heard a pin drop besides the raucous that man made. All eyes were on us both as he approached, leaping upon the couch across from me like a gargoyle hunched in form. Still, I ignored him. If one thing has kept me alive, it has been to keep my finger off the pieces until it’s time to play.
His voice was thick with his Spanish accent and yet there was something more. A gravelly, croak in his throat. He growled like a wild dog with every word, as though speaking were something alien to him. A monster who only knew to bite. “I was wondering where you were hiding. I’ve been all over town and yet I’ve yet to meet you. You’re not a coward, are you Jean?”
Understand the old me would have struck him then and there. Such a question is more than grounds for death, even in Bordeaux. So please believe me father that I tried to resist as you had asked. I set down my coffee and looked him dead in his hateful eyes, jaundiced yellow with a fire in their colored ring. “Making a change of character actually. The conversation here is enlightening. Something I can help you with, Mr.?“
“Diego.” His laugh was hoarse and still did not reach those eyes. As though his face a mask, with two holes for him that wore it.
“And yes, you can. I am looking for your mother, Jean. But I have since found out she was dead. Can I ask you friend, do you think she’s in hell? I’ve heard quite the tales. The talk of the town you know. Adultery is quite a sin. And what would that make your father?”
The room gasped at the suggestion, murmuring aplenty behind me. Every ounce of sweat and blood pulsed through my veins. To let him go would have surely made me a coward. Even still, I resisted. Placing my reputation in the hands of our Lord as best as I knew how. I am not perfect mind you, and so I did respond. “I would have thought a friend of Moors and Saracens, would be well aware of the going’s on in hell. Maybe you should be telling me.”
To my surprise Diego looked confused. As though he loosed an arrow that missed its mark entirely. The moment was brief yet to my amusement he was perplexed. Then something changed. In that moment he stopped as though listening to a devil in his ear. Then he regained his composure. His wicked smile all the brighter, looking me dead within my eyes. “I know your little brother is rotting there as well. Too slow to swim, and couldn’t even find the pearly gates with help.” He laughed as he spat his joke, the spittle landing on my brow.
As you know father, little Pierre was my youngest brother. A kind, sweet little boy who never wished harm to any living thing. He was not the brightest, slow to learning and hardly knew to speak. Despite this he was a gentle soul who saw the good in everyone. Even someone such as I. He did not deserve to fall into that canal. And he did not deserve my failure in saving him.
I dashed my coffee in the devil’s face. I struck him across the brow bellowing the only sentient thought within my soul. “Pistols, midnight.”
Face dripping with my drink he cackled. His hoarse rasp falling out of him, smiling like a cat with bird within its claw. He had every right to change the terms as I had challenged him. Despite this he spoke with a coy affection. “I’ll see you there.” Laughing as I stormed my way outside.
-
The bell tolled midnight by the graveyard on edge of town. I stormed to my destination, pistol loaded to wait for my opponent. On the stone road, Seconds came to support me in spirit, as none would dare to cross that man themselves. Rage and indignation drowned what fear I had left. I cursed aloud, swore vengeance, and berated the man a monster to anyone who would hear. Looking back, I may well have leaned into my indignant fervor, if only to quell the fear.
The men and I stood around an old lantern on the edge of town. A gas lamp glowing orange above the graveyard across the dirt road. The gravedigger made his evening meal, digging the hole for whoever came to lie within it. In those days it was not a question of if someone would die each day, but who. A fog settled across the cold night air as we gripped our coats together to fight the chilling gust of wind. Some smoked from pipes as others nipped at their flasks. I was offered some for my nerves, yet I declined, a habit from which now I can no longer abstain.
Then in the orange glow he appeared. Still ragged, greasy and unkempt. His sea molded clothes hanging off him wet with the night air and whatever port had kept him busy. Salt stained his sackcloth shirt in crust like the tide. He should have been in the throes of hypothermia. Yet of his condition he was unaware, dragging a bottle of rum and a pistol he surely pulled off a prior victim. His body swayed like a drunkard. But his eyes, glowing red with all the hate he could muster. All of it towards me. A man I’ve never even met. Still, no one asked him into port. No one brought him trouble but it was damnation that dragged him here. So, I reasoned, if God were to forgive me killing any man, surely it would be him.
He met my gaze with a sneer. Reaching the throng that awaited his arrival, he spoke to me directly.
“It was you I was sent for Jean Claude,” he laughed as he said those words. That hollow rasp as though speaking through a puppet made of wood.
“By who?” I rolled my eyes in contempt. I raised the pistol in my hand, inspecting flint and dog for a spark that wouldn’t fail me.
He didn't even bother to look at his own the moment he replied. “My master had his sights on you the moment you were born. And now it’s time I take you home as well.”
The referee, a lawyer in good standing raised his hands to cut the conversation short. “Gentlemen, the terms are set and you have arrived with honor kept. You may agree to walk away, or you may stand to take your paces.” Even he had enough of this man claiming to be of the devil.
The Spaniard threw his arms open and roared for all to hear. “That won’t be necessary. Take your shot Jean, and so you belong to me.” He ripped open his shirt. A dozen scars and wounds, pustules and gore from a man who should not be left standing and yet he felt no pain. He simply pointed at his chest, daring me to take the first shot.
I looked at the referee. Even he was taken back by the display.
The look of shock and disgust quickly faded as he turned toward me to nod. “He asked for it, let the devil have it.”
I tried father. I really did. I swore at him. Called him a fool and asked him why he wished to die. Did he know a man I fought before? What quarrel did he have with me? Or did he wish to let the earth take him when it could have been the sea?
He then said the unforgivable. He smiled and told me. “Your brother says it burns Jean, as he writhes down here in hell.”
The hole I left within his brain declared that he was dead. The blood pouring between his eyes, smoke billowing from that wound were witnesses. Yet they were liars. Diego was not dead, his knees did not buckle and the man did not fall. His eyes never faltered and he even smiled. He laughed as bits of blood and bone sprinkled the ground before him. This man did not die. I shot him in the face and there he stood, laughing at me. That hollow rasp echoing in the night.
The seconds turned and some had even run. The referee watched in horror as a man who should have been a corpse laughed, blood dripping down the crook of his right eye. He felt nothing I was sure of it, brain in pieces and cackling at me like he had won. I am not ashamed to say I trembled as he raised his gun, but I did not run.
He said a final word, holding up his arm.
“Suffer.”
And suffer I have. Diego Alvarez should have been burned for witchcraft with witnesses to prove it. But he died after killing me. I am still alive to write this of course, but not for long. He aimed for neither heart nor head and yet his aim was true. The bullet pierced my gullet, lodging in my spine. After he fell, I writhed about in agony. There are few things more painful than a wound that cannot kill you. Organs in a constant churn, writhing to rip the wound afresh, over and over again. As the infection slowly takes me, the shot has robbed my ability to walk or even contain my bladder. A man who once held his head up high now soiling himself as I crawl through the city streets. I paid a servant to roll me in a chair. I paid the apothecary for every herb and salve which did nothing to ease that pain. A shot of lead no surgeon could remove, taking its time to claim my life. For it had all the time in the world, and it made me suffer for it.
The money ran dry soon after. In my state I had neither the mental faculty or the reputation to carry on with business. My fortune bled on medicine, assets torn apart. Men I once looked down upon smiled like vultures with bloody beaks as they stripped my livelihood away. They didn't even have the decency to wait for me to die.
I live now in a hovel. Once a warehouse for my wine on the edge of town. The rats my only companions. I spent my last pennies on this letter and a bottle of Chauteau de Goulaine. A final drink to celebrate before I wait to die.
Forgive me Father. And from the bottom of my wicked heart, I hope this letter finds you well.
For by the time you read it.
I will be in Hell