The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [40]
In general, the Comstock Vie-Gorgons were known for being not as rich as the Raithower Vie-Gorgons and, as far as fashion goes, both less severe and less sophisticated. Popular opinion had it that the Comstock Vie-Gorgons made up for their sartorial deficiencies by being friendlier; Allisandre Vie-Gorgon hosted an evening party virtually every week, received visitors every morning, and spent her afternoons calling on a number of well-off acquaintances.
The Comstock Vie-Gorgons were also known for being far more eccentric than their Raithower cousins, but this was due solely to the activities of their youngest member: Valentine Vie-Gorgon.
The young coroner arrived in the Vie-Gorgon house on Comstock Street covered in black filth and smelling like an open sewer. He burst through the main doors just as the midmorning sun began to come out ahead in its struggle to warm the ice streets, and handed a disgusting coat that looked like it had been dipped in sludge to his butler. The poor man had not even had time to ask the name of the foul vagrant that had entered without knocking; it goes without saying that Valentine was virtually unrecognizable.
“Have that cleaned for me, Henry,” Valentine told his butler. The young man strode with a jaunty, athletic gate. “I suppose I’ll need a new one for today. Have I got any other clean ones? Never mind, I shall just buy one!”
“Master Valentine?” Henry the butler managed to croak, his arms filled with the disgusting coat. It was too late. The young man had already gone into the parlor.
“Mother!” Valentine called out as he saw Veronica Vie-Gorgon, sitting with a number of ladies and talking about something that, no doubt, the young coroner would find of little interest. He grinned, showing teeth that were the luminescent green of a man afflicted with the scrave, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve been out, as you can see. I shall have a bath, now, I think.”
At the sight of the young man, covered as he was in what seemed to be a malodorous mixture of dirt, tar, coal dust, and horse manure that made his clothes look like they’d been used to stop up toilets and covered every inch of his face with black, two of the ladies in the room were taken with a sudden case of the vapors. Unaccustomed to the youngest Vie-Gorgon’s antics, they took him to be the worst kind of ruffian, and immediately perceived that the house had been invaded by some kind of disgusting housebreaker.
Veronica Vie-Gorgon merely sat with a long-suffering look on her face, and permitted her son to kiss her cheek.
The third lady in the room, a beautiful, delicate-featured young woman with skin as smooth as glass and as black as pitch, rose to her feet. This was Emilia Vie-Gorgon, youngest daughter of the Raithower Vie-Gorgons, and not one to be fooled by the simple disguise of sewage.
“Cousin,” she greeted Valentine. Her voice was warm and charming, and she had a pristine white dress that contrasted sharply with the color of her skin.
“Cousin!” The young man replied, taking her hands and kissing her on either cheek.
“You smell like shit.” She showed him her white teeth. “Moreover, you seem to have covered yourself with sewage.”
“Ah, cousin,” Valentine smiled his bright green smile, his eyes twinkling maliciously. “I see that your skin is still as black as your heart.”
It is unclear precisely how seriously Valentine and his cousin insulted each other, but it turned out to be of less-thanvital importance. Valentine took his leave almost immediately and headed straight for the sumptuously appointed bathroom in the Comstock house. A private heater provided running hot water, a luxury to be found in few homes west of Old Bank. Valentine spent over an hour soaking in soap and water in an effort to scald the filth from his skin.
When he had cleaned himself or, at least, cleaned himself to his satisfaction, Valentine dressed in his neatly-tailored grey suit, belted