'You are an honest person,' she repeated.
'As I said, it was nothing, really.'
'No,' she said, abruptly.
She got to her feet and took a few steps towards him. He noticed that one of the buttons on her shirt had come undone. He could see her skin underneath, and it too was marked by a curious translu-cence. She stood in front of him, not moving. He was completely unsure of what was about to happen. He was unsure as to whether she was about to commence with the removal of all of her clothes, or else begin screaming at the top of her voice.
'I'm sure Marguerite would like to thank you personally for your kindness,' she said, in an even monotone.
He cleared his throat gently. The room really was most unpleasantly stuffy, he thought.
'Marguerite?'
'Yes. She would like to thank you personally.'
'I don't believe I know any Marguerite,' he said.
'Oh, but you have already met her. It is through her, that we meet, David.'
'Do you mean-?' he began, but he did not finish his sentence.
She took another step towards him. There was something almost feline about her movements.
'She's waiting,' she said.
He got to his feet, the wine glass in one hand.
'Shall we, David?'
'Yes,' he said.
She took the wine glass from his hand and placed it on a nearby table. Then she moved towards the doorway, and although she did not actually take his hand, he nevertheless gained the impression that he was being conspicuously led. They had not, by this point, had any form of physical contact, and she was in fact closer in proximity to him now than at any other stage throughout their encounter. Again, he caught her perfume. It was an intoxicating scent, although there was a trace of something else as well. Her hair fell past her shoulders, so very black it seemed to absorb all light. She reached the doorway — he barely a foot behind her — and then turned. He jumped a little: a small sound escaped his throat. Up close, her face had quite an unpleasant aspect. He knew it was not uncommon for women to use a cosmetic concealment to cover any unsightly blemishes on the face, but it appeared that the entirety of Kaaiija's face was slathered in such a substance. Her skin looked very grey, as if she perhaps had some birthmark, or 'port wine stain' that covered the majority of her features and sat uneasily with the consistency of the cosmetic. Some of the make-up had got into her hair as well at the edge of the temple. In the yellow light her eyes appeared very dark indeed, almost black.
'You may leave this light on, David,' she said.
He had no intention whatsoever of touching anything.
'She waits,' she said.
He followed Kaaiija into the hallway. She moved over to the doorway to the left, and from her hip pocket removed a key. In a singularly graceful movement she inserted the key into the lock and gave it a very gentle turn. He heard the small click of the latch. Kaaiija opened the door and felt for the light switch, almost as if she had little or no idea as to its location. From where he was standing he could see nothing of the room's contents.
'I know she would wish to thank you personally,' she said.
She entered, and he followed.
The room was full of dolls. There were dolls seated in chairs: dolls positioned on the windowsill: a doll on all fours frozen in the act of crawling across the carpet, its head angled towards the doorway. They were all of a similar kind to the one he had discovered by his front door, yet their clothes and the colour of their hair varied. They did not appear to have been arranged in any obvious manner or formation: in fact, he had the curious sensation that the room had been a hive of activity only moments before their arrival.
'Do you see?' she said. 'My perfect, adorable little people?'
'You have so many,' he said.
She took a step further into the room and lifted the doll from the floor. She manoeuvred its limbs so that it lay completely flat in her hands, as would a body in a coffin.
'How long have you been collecting?' he asked.
'Oh, nothing so vulgar as collecting,' she replied, sounding quite put out. 'As with all beautiful things, it is more a question of them finding us, do you not agree?'
She placed the doll in a sitting position on a nearby chair.
'All the world's beautiful things, all great works: we are humbled before them. We have no choice in the matter, I'm afraid,' she continued.
She gave a little titter, overtly girlish.
'So it is,' she said. 'They found me.'
He looked about himself. There was a doll by his right foot. He moved his foot cautiously and looked at Kaaiija.
'What is it that they are made of?'
'Many of these are bisque: unglazed porcelain. See, Madeleine has wooden upper arms.'
She indicated towards a doll sat at a small table with a teacup in a raised hand. It was the only example, as he could see, of doll-sized furniture in the room. All other fittings — those over which the dolls were arranged — were of normal size. The doll with the teacup was completely bald. The head appeared mottled with dull grey marks.
'Its head —»
'Yes. They are pepper marks. They are impurities found at the time of the firing. Poor thing.'
He noted that the room was perceptibly colder than the rest of the flat. He moved away from the doll on the floor.
'Are many of them very old?' he said.
'Nineteenth century. They were made by the great craftsmen: Bremillon, Vrassier. Look here: a Peliebvre Bebe — see her moulded tongue and teeth?'
He did not much like the one to which she was now pointing. Its head was obviously painted as to resemble flesh colour, though it had a distinct bluish quality.
'Their faces are very expressive, aren't they?' he said, meaning quite the opposite.
'They are perfect, adorable little people,' she repeated.
She stood regarding them.
'You are obviously very knowledgeable on the subject.'
'Not at all,' she replied. 'I am no expert, simply an aficionado. Many of these have been in my family for quite some years. My father — he was a very well travelled man, although his origins were simple. On Valetada our house stood with nothing but marshland for miles in every direction.'
'What line of work was he in, if you don't mind me asking?'
'He was a craftsman. A kind, good man: my father.'
'Did he himself make dolls?'
'Not dolls, no.'
She bent down and gently drew the doll with the moulded teeth towards her.
'See here: she is a Moulandre and Rasp from Bueurze. Again, bisque. There are so many, David.'
She gestured towards the dolls seated on the chairs.
'Wax over Papier-Mache. Vuissart and Kuennier: they created the most exquisite automated models.'
He recognized, then, the doll that he had found by his doorstep. It was positioned on a chair next to another doll whose features were obscured by a small white bonnet. It was wearing the same shoes and the same blue dress, but there was an ugly maroon mark across its face that had not been there previously.
'Can I presume that some of these are automated?'
'Oh, no. Not at all.'
'But — the doll — ' he said. The room really was very cold indeed, and he felt the prickle of dampness in his armpits, '-it was on my doorstep.'
'Like I said. She is full of mischief.'
