Another Faust by Daniel Nayeri Page A

by her sister in a past that never happened. She looked over at Bicé, who smiled lazily at her.
    “Stop whispering, you two,” said Belle.
    “Stupid Val’s playing God again!” Victoria yelled.
    “Vic,” said Christian, trying to calm her down. “Whatever he did is no big deal. Can we just have some peace?”
    “It
is
a big deal!” shouted Victoria. “You don’t know anything. He could rewind and do anything he wanted.”
    Valentin couldn’t help smiling.
    Belle said, “He wouldn’t do
anything.
”
    “He would,” said Victoria. Then she turned to Valentin. “Just remember that I know everything you do, you stupid punk. You’re too arrogant not to tell yourself all about it later.”
    Valentin was still smiling. Victoria’s comments had barely affected him. She just glared at him, crossed her arms, and lowered her voice to a whisper again.
    “You just do whatever you want. You don’t care who it hurts. I guess that sort of thing runs in your family.”
    Valentin’s face turned white. Victoria could see the hurt in his eyes when she referred to his family, and somehow his reaction calmed her, made her feel better. When he spoke, his voice was different, a bit strained. “Wow, Vic. You’re a real piece of work.”
    Suddenly Belle started to sob. “I hate this house,” she said softly, somehow emotional from a slap that never happened, a betrayal that was never discovered. “Why can’t we just live in the guest house permanently?”
    “That’s so like you, Belle, thinking that a prettier house would make you happy,” said Victoria. “I would never live in that house. It’s not real.”
    “Neither is this!”
    “Yes, it is!”
    “No, it’s not!”
    Suddenly the entire kitchen table lifted into the air, turned on its side, and crashed to the floor. The plates and glasses shattered on the ground in a splatter of food and juice. Belle let out a little yip. The four of them sat, dazed, in their seats, in a circle. Christian stood in the middle, his chest heaving, his eyes on the floor. He didn’t say anything, only stood in the center of the circle after his sudden splurge of violence. After a long pause, he said in a soft, regretful tone, “Stop fighting.”
    Then he bent down and picked up a bagel from the floor. He walked out.
    “Happy family we have here,” said Valentin.
    “Shut up,” said the other three, almost in unison.
    Valentin just shrugged, grabbed a piece of toast, and got up to leave. As he walked down the hall, he noticed Vileroy walking beside him, as if she had been there all along. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “I still need help.” He crept close to her, letting his cheek touch hers as he spoke, his stray hairs mingling with hers.
    Madame Vileroy glanced at Valentin’s hand, which darted into his pocket and emerged with a folded white cloth napkin that seemed to be pulsing in his hand. Valentin always carried it with him.
    “Have you been practicing?” she asked, encouraging his ever-flirtatious manner.
    “All the time.” Valentin opened the napkin instinctively. Inside was an old-fashioned stopwatch. It looked worn, beaten up, and weary with overuse. It beat with an unsteady rhythm. Like a defective metal heart.
    “Let’s see,” Madame Vileroy whispered in his ear. Her breath made him shiver.
    He began reciting her a poem. A love sonnet he had not fully memorized. Each time he messed up, he went back, trying to make it as seamless as possible. For her, he wanted to make it perfect. He was always willing to put on a show for his beautiful governess, the one who had given him so much.
    “Why can’t I get it right?” he asked when she informed him that the tic was still there.
    She sighed. “You’re not patient enough, Valentin.” She put a long finger to her lips. “You don’t go all the way back. You don’t dare to grab that perfect moment, and so you flounder, grasping at the moments around it. And then what happens? It always seems like a