The Mysterious Benedict Society

Come with me to my office, won’t you? Step along quickly now. I hate to waste time getting from one place to the next.” And spinning his chair about, Mr. Curtain rocketed from the room.

Reynie hesitated only long enough to take a deep, deep breath, then hurried after him.

Mr. Curtain did hate to waste time. Reynie had to run to keep up with him. Through the empty corridors and across the cafeteria, where the Helpers were busy preparing supper, Mr. Curtain never slowed — not even when he approached the door onto the plaza. Slamming it open with the front of his chair (and scattering frightened students left and right), he zoomed across the plaza and the rock garden, his wheels spitting up bits of gravel that stung Reynie’s arms. Racing along behind, Reynie saw his friends across the plaza, staring after him in wonder and not a little apprehension. He waved to reassure them, though at this moment he could have used some reassurance himself.

As Mr. Curtain banged through the door to the Institute Control Building, it occurred to Reynie that every door in the Institute must have been designed to be opened in this violent manner. Mr. Curtain clearly would not bear having to wait for a door to open. Nor to wait for any lagging students, and so Reynie hurried on. They passed down a number of door-lined corridors, which must be the Recruiter quarters and Executive suites. At last they came to a plain metal door, whereupon Mr. Curtain stopped so abruptly that Reynie — who had expected him to smash it open without slowing — almost ran up against the back of his wheelchair. Now he saw the numeric keypad beside the door. Mr. Curtain kept his office locked. Directing Reynie to look away, Mr. Curtain punched in the number code, the door slid swiftly open, and Mr. Curtain shot into the office. Reynie had to leap forward before the door closed again.

Mr. Curtain’s office was an oblong, white-stoned room with no windows. It seemed bony and cold, like an empty skull. The bare stone floor had not even a rug, and there was a drain in it, perhaps for the sake of cleaning. High on the wall behind Mr. Curtain’s desk, in a heavy silver frame, hung an old map of Holland (Mr. Curtain’s place of birth, Reynie remembered) along with several sketches of Stonetown Harbor and Nomansan Island. Beneath the sketches stood a row of locked cabinets — bookshelves, Reynie realized, but locked so no one could get at the books. Mr. Curtain’s desk, a dull-polished, Spartan metal affair, was carefully organized with file boxes and short stacks of paper. On one corner of the desk sat an artificial violet in a pot. The flower looked perfectly real, was in excellent condition, and unlike Mr. Benedict’s live violet, required no care. How strangely similar the two men were, Reynie thought, and yet how utterly different.

Mr. Curtain motioned for Reynie to sit across the desk from him, then set his large black book upon the desk. It was clearly an old book, with a binding that had been mended more than once and with several pages dog-eared throughout. The book fell open to a place Mr. Curtain had marked with a paper clip, and Reynie saw that the pages were covered with handwriting. It was a journal!

Mr. Curtain was drumming his fingers on the desk and regarding Reynie in silence. It suddenly occurred to Reynie that perhaps he was expected to speak. “Did — did you want to show me something in that book?”

Mr. Curtain frowned. “This book? Certainly not.” He reached forward and snapped the journal closed. “I was only collecting my thoughts, Reynard. Tell me, what do you think of my map? I saw you looking at it as we entered.”

“Your map of Holland, sir? It’s quite lovely.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Mr. Curtain said, his tone shifting to fondness. “I was born in Holland, you see — an orphan like yourself. I spent my childhood there, too, and a terrible childhood it was. Taunted and bullied, ridiculed and abused by other children. I don’t miss my childhood, but I do, on occasion, miss Holland, a country with an admirable tradition.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, why did the other children torment you?”

“I do mind your asking,” Mr. Curtain said coldly, but then he collected himself and said in a friendlier tone, “We both know you’ve had similar experiences, do we not, Reynard? For being different?”

Reynie hesitated, then nodded.

“People are capable of great wickedness, Reynard. They cause each other such misery. This is why I’m particularly proud of my work. Despite having been persecuted myself, my chief goal in life is to bring happiness to all.” He smiled a tight smile, a smile that gave Reynie the feeling Mr. Curtain half-believed what he said, but also that something else, something much larger and darker, lay beneath.

“Now, Reynard, to the point,” said Mr. Curtain. “I don’t believe there’s ever been such a clever student at my Institute as you. You have a shrewd, strong mind. I saw this at once. And you are a natural leader.”

“I don’t know about that, sir. I —”

“Don’t argue with me, Reynard,” said Mr. Curtain. “I dislike contradiction.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Mr. Curtain’s tone softened. “A natural leader, I say. Oh, you may not see it yourself, but I daresay I can see a bit more than you. The way your friends gather about you, the way your enemies wish to destroy you — don’t think I haven’t noticed these things. It is familiar to me, you see. You remind me of myself at your age.”

“I’m . . . flattered, sir. I’m sure you were a brilliant student.”

“No doubt,” said Mr. Curtain with a smile. “And I had my share of enemies, too. Children despise superior minds, you know, especially in leaders, who must often make unpopular decisions.”

Reynie thought suddenly of Kate and Sticky, who had been so shocked at his suggestion to cheat on the quizzes. But they didn’t despise him, he knew that. . . .

“One problem with being a leader,” Mr. Curtain was saying, “is that even among your friends you are alone, for it is you — and you alone — to whom the others look for final guidance.” (Reynie felt a pang. That was true, he thought. He did feel that way sometimes.) “I’m not saying this is your experience now,” Mr. Curtain went on, “for you are only a boy. But in your future you may wish to choose carefully with whom you associate. No point in being a regular sort of person, Reynard. You have a greater calling, a duty to yourself, and you must pursue it with all your heart and mind.”

“And . . . how should I do that?” Reynie asked.

“This is what I’m arriving at,” said Mr. Curtain. “When you are a little older and more experienced, I have you in mind as an Executive.”