A short story set in 19th-century London, England. It tells the life of Moorish sculptor Achille Diouf through the eyes of his new housemaid, Hetty Thompson. The divergent worlds of Victorian Britain and African Moorish culture blend and collide, fr...
Every woman whom which I lie turns to stone. Achille Diouf
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1880. London, England.
It was my second week working at the Diouf house and I was beginning to get into a comfortable routine. The Diouf house was a four-story traditional London townhouse, which stood at the very end of a cul-de-sac on Park Road. It was, to date, the nicest and grandest home which I had had the pleasure of being employed by. It still felt like a dream that I was waiting to be crassly shaken awake from by my mother, but that time never came. The house was not only nice in physique without and within, but my employer – Mister Achille Diouf – was the most well-mannered, refined, and accommodating Master whom I had served under. The house had a vibrant warmth to it, a distant and foreign exoticism. It was as if you were standing between two worlds: Classic, burgeoning, clamoring Queen Victoria's London, in all of its own prestige, and somewhere faraway, enchanting, and even more classic yet, as to be considered ancient. Somewhere where the sun never sets, the birds are bizarre and brilliant, and the food intoxicatingly delicious. A sensation of deep shame wrapped around me like a cold, wet shawl as I recalled my initial dislike of working for someone with such an uncommon name... someone so uniquely different from customary British people.
Both my reverie and the intimate repentance that followed were interrupted by the butler, the only other staff member of the Diouf home. He stood tall and gaunt in the doorframe of the kitchen, observing me. I was truly convinced that this man did not like me at all and I wondered, "Who does he like?" But the intense consternation which held his visage captive broke that thought, too, and I realized at once that he was staring at the cutting board of unpeeled, entirely untouched potatoes and onions.
I winced immediately at my own slackness, knowing that I had made a mistake deserving of scrutiny, but I dared not turn my head to see it. Seeing Mister Clovis Pelletier in my peripheral told me enough about what he was thinking about me in that moment. But he, in what seemed to be his usual manner I was learning, stood completely still, unmoving and frozen. One should expect slow movements and stiff mannerisms from an elderly man such as himself, but his frigid stoicism made me uncomfortable. His presence felt strange and stifling to me, and his vigilant, omniscient nature did not help to ease me.
His gravelly voice finally broke the silence.
"Master Diouf's breakfast is served at six in the morning exact and it is now past that time, Miss Thompson," he said. "As the maid of all work you are required to fulfill all basic and necessary household duties, and breakfast is quite basic and quite necessary."
"Right you are, Mister Pelletier. I do apologize. It would seem I am not so accustomed to working in such a fine place, nor with such limited staff so I do believe that my own inexperience and ignorance gripped hold of me unexpectedly," I replied truthfully. I knew that any chance I had of being viewed favorably by him was now gone, but the graveness in which he spoke made me even more concerned about what Master Diouf would think of me. Without my new Master's approval I would be out of a job. Mild panic had set in.
I swallowed the knot of nerves in my throat and continued, "I was not sure if Master was even home, sir. I believed him to be out on a business venture or out with company, as I usually find the curtain in his bedroom window pulled back when I walk up to the house in the morning. His window is visible from street side."
There lingered an even longer silence than the first one. So long, in fact, that I cricked my neck a touch in the butler's direction to check that he still stood there. I made eye contact with him and his expression remained the same, but he seemed to stop breathing altogether. His shoulders no longer had the gentle rise and fall to them which indicates the most rudimentary and subtle sign of human life.
"No," He replied, his French accent now heavy and thick as the porridge I would eat to brace the bone-chilling English mornings before arriving to work. "Master Diouf is indeed present. But he is in the attic ... working. You must never disturb him when he is up there and you yourself must never go up there for it is forbidden. You will leave his breakfast tray on top of the stand that is alongside the corridor where the attic's hatch is. When he is ready, he will come down. Do not try to knock on the hatch door and do not call for him."
With this no more was said, and he turned on his heel and disappeared behind the corridor wall, but not before giving me one last mistrusting, scornful glance.
