The Urchin in the Basement

The gentleman visits museums often, out of habit. Though he has frequented the Metropolitan Museum in the past year, none of the staff recognize him. They do not even seem to notice him once he has paid for his ticket and entered, and the employees that wander through the exhibits walk past him as though he is not there.

He moves through the museums like a ghost, standing still before artifacts for hours as he stares.

It is by chance that the gentleman discovers the urchin in the museum.

He is on the lower level, in the concourse, when a black shape rushes past him. He catches the movement from the corner of his eye.

He does not need to turn to see where the shadow has gone.

When he is done looking at the carved balustrade, he turns and goes down another flight of stairs, marked Staff Only, to the door of the basement.

In the darkness to which is swings open, a pair of eyes blink at him, like the luminescent eyes of a cat.

“You can come up. I do not work in this facility. I have no desire to turn you out of it, either,” he says, into the darkness.

The eyes blink twice more before the shape approaches, climbing up the stairs with minimal creaking. When the man has taken several steps back, the urchin stands in the doorway.

She regards him wearily, but with curiousity. She does not fidget much, but her eyes narrow at him in suspicion.

The girl is covered in the grime and dust that comes from hiding among disused signs and packed artifacts in the museum basement.

“Do you live here?” the man asks.

The girl nods but says nothing.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asks.

The girl nods eagerly, her small face brightening.

The gentleman leads her, without touching her, through the mazelike halls of the museum and into the bright street. The crowds do not glance at the girl and when she notices, her eyes widen and she stares outright at the crowds parting around the man in front of her.

The gentleman brings her to a hotel and deposits her in separate rooms from his own. When she emerges, cleaned and dressed, some time later, he takes her to the lounge downstairs for a cup of tea.

The girl is dressed in lace and ribbons, with clean boots and brushed hair. She looks proper and prim and entirely out of place in the mountaintop hovel. She fidgets with her sleeve cuff as though she is not entirely used to wearing such clothes.

When the waitress arrives with a plate of scones and dishes with multiple types of jams and clotted cream, staring at the girl and hardly glancing at the man opposite, the girl’s eyes widen considerably.

“You may eat it,” the man says to her, gesturing with a gloved hand.

She looks from the man to the scones and back before reaching for the first.

When she is slathering jam on her third scone, the man begins making inquiries.

“What happened to your parents?” the man asks.

The girl shrugs and goes back to nibbling at her scones.

“Do you have a name?”

The girl narrows her eyes and neither nods nor shakes her head.

“Do you know all of the exhibits in the museum?”

She nods and snatches another scone from the tiered tray.

“Including that about the evolution of species, and that about funerary rites and rituals?”

She nods again, and eyes a fourth scone.

The man stares at her as she slathers scones with butter and scarfs them down. She carefully puts down her last bite of pastry and swallows.

She stares back.

“What is the Latin name for the king Cobra?” he asks, suddenly.

The girl does not respond, but she points a crumb-covered finger at the pen on the table next to them. The man plucks it from the table and places it in front of her. She takes it and writes quickly on a napkin. She sets the pen down and slides it toward him, hen continues eating. It reads: Cobra regius.

The man nods, the girl loses interest and picks up a sixth scone. While she eats, staring at the opulent lounge around them and the other patrons who sip tea and eat off dainty shining trays, he regards her with interest.

The gentleman says nothing, but he slides the napkin into the pocket of his suit.

In the coming months, the girl does not speak a word.

Art by Ludovic Jacqz

Text by Lucie MacAulay