“Would you like to dance?” the lieutenant asked Emma as Virginie put a record on the phonograph.
“Only if you ask Virginie and Madame Clement first,” Emma replied.
“Well, I can see asking Virginie, but Madame Clement is another story. . . .”
Emma slapped his arm.
“No, I don’t mean she’s too ugly or infirm. She’s had too much to drink. What if she falls from my arms?”
“It appears one of our soldiers has saved you from your dilemma.” Emma and the officer watched as Monsieur Thibault approached the housekeeper and asked her to dance. A wide smile swept across her face; then, she gulped a last swig of champagne before the soldier led her to the dance floor created in the middle of the room.
“So, I must dance with Virginie?” the lieutenant asked, as he spotted the attractive, young nurse in her white uniform.
Emma nodded.
“I think I can make the sacrifice.” He ambled across the room and pointed to the dance floor.
Virginie smiled in surprise and looked to Emma for approval.
Emma nodded and the couple began to dance, the officer leading Virginie slowly around the floor, picking up the pace as they meshed as partners. Lieutenant Stoneman’s booted feet waltzed in unison to the music as he held the nurse’s hand high in his.
From the corner of her eye, Emma spotted a flash through the curtains. Probably fireworks, or someone shooting a rifle from the rooftop in celebration. In an instant, the flash brought back the disturbing memory of the shelling at the Front and the nights spent at Tom’s bedside. What is he doing now? Is he thinking of me, or of someone else?
Another flash split the sky and a nearly imperceptible rumble reached her ears.
Is the city being shelled?
Lieutenant Stoneman broke away from Virginie and hurried to the windows.
Emma, her heart pounding, followed.
The officer threw back the curtain, exposing the glass, and peered out.
“What do you think it is?” Emma asked.
He stared intently out the window. “An aerial bombardment or Big Bertha.”
“No . . . not even the Germans . . . on Christmas Eve.”
The officer’s head jerked left as yet another flash lit the sky.
“That was farther away,” Emma said.
“Yes, I saw it.” He seemed relieved as he held back the curtain. “A pyrotechnic shell.”
A shadow fell across the window.
Madame Clement gasped.
Emma wheeled to find the room’s occupants frozen like figures in a painting. The phonograph needle slipped into a repetitious clack . . . clack . . . clack at the end of the record. Everyone stared at Monsieur Thibault, who had deserted the startled Madame Clement in the midst of the dance.
The French soldier, his right arm extended, stood in front of Emma, pointing a pistol at her, but seemingly looking through her body into the night beyond the window pane.
Emma sensed that Lieutenant Stoneman was about to move toward the armed soldier.
Monsieur Thibault suspected the officer’s actions as well and waved his pistol at the American, a deathly signal not to move.
Emma grabbed Lieutenant Stoneman’s arm and pulled him back to her side.
“Arrêtez la guerre,” the French soldier whispered gruffly through his deformed mouth.
“What did he say?” the lieutenant asked Emma.
“Stop the war.”
The officer whispered, “Is he crazy?”
“Be quiet, he might understand English,” Emma ordered. “He’s seen his reflection in the window. We mustn’t upset him.” She forced a smile and took a step toward him. “Monsieur Thibault . . . this is a Christmas party. Put down your gun. Virginie, tell Monsieur Thibault we understand his sorrow and we want to help him. Tell him that’s why he came to the studio in the first place—to reclaim a normal life.”
Virginie, her brown eyes wide with fear, recited Emma’s instructions.
Monsieur Thibault moved closer to Emma and the lieutenant. “Tuez les Boches,” he commanded.
“The Germans are not here,” Emma said.
From the other side of the room, Hassan crept toward the soldier.
Emma signaled for the Moroccan to stop.
Monsieur Thibault again waved the pistol at Emma and the officer. At his order, they moved in front of a bookcase in the corner.
The soldier walked toward the window as if stalking the enemy and aimed the pistol directly at his reflection. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” he said like a sad prayer and unwrapped the bandage that covered the right side of his head. When he was done, he dropped the dressing on the floor and stared, as if looking into a mirror, at the cavity that was his face.
Emma reached for the soldier.
“Arrêtez!” he yelled and jammed the gun’s barrel into his right temple.
Virginie cried out. Some of the soldiers brought their hands to their faces to wipe away tears while others stared in disbelief at their comrade.
“Monsieur Thibault,” Emma pleaded, “put down the gun. Think of your family.”
The soldier turned to Emma. Tears slid down from his left eye and a piteous smile emerged from the ravaged mouth.
Then, he pulled the trigger.
The injured soldier’s smile contorted into an agonizing twist as the room exploded in a flash, a deafening report, and a cacophony of screams.
Blood splattered across Emma’s white dress.
* * *
Drift away, drift away to sleep, perhaps nothingness, on the night of the Child’s birth.
The police arrived first; a few minutes later, an ambulance. The medical workers carted Monsieur Thibault’s body down the stairs and through the passageway, their breaths ballooning from their mouths, the dead man’s legs and arms splayed across their shoulders.
After the corpse had been removed, Virginie donned an apron and scrubbed the casting room floor with towels, swiping at the wood like a mad washerwoman.
After helping the nurse, Madame Clement, through teary eyes, packed up her records and player and wished Emma and the lieutenant a joyous Christmas. She stared at the bloodstained floor as her son and another man, carrying the phonograph, coaxed her from the room.
The other soldiers, like lost children, straggled down the stairs.
Christmas Eve is a dream. I want no part of it. The war is a dream. I should have been prepared for something like this. I was too wrapped up in the holiday—too wrapped up in my own idea of the perfect party for these soldiers. How stupid of me, not to see this coming. If only the flashes hadn’t happened and Andrew hadn’t pulled the curtain. I saw Monsieur’s rifle, but I never suspected he had a gun. So many kill themselves during the happy times.
Virginie tossed a blood-soaked bandage into a bucket and sobbed.
Lieutenant Stoneman knelt, placing his hands on the nurse’s shoulders, wiping the tears from her cheeks, saying in a steady voice, “Everything will be all right.”
“I can take no more,” Virginie said, wrenching herself away from him. “I’m going to a friend’s house for the holiday.” She stared at her red fingers and the bloodstains streaking her apron.
“Wash up and go to your friend’s,” Emma said. “Hassan and I will finish cleaning up.”
Virginie nodded and rushed from the room.
The remaining three—Emma, Hassan, and the officer—washed the floor until it was cleansed of blood and human tissue; then, they moved the furniture back into place and extinguished the candles. Except for the mistletoe and a few decorations, there was no indication a party had ever taken place.
Hassan said good night and trudged up the stairs.
Emma walked with the lieutenant to the alcove to retrieve the officer’s coat.
His hand lingered on the door. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Emma looked into eyes filled with concern. “Yes.” She held his hands and studied the thin, elegant fingers. They were red-tipped als
o, stained by Monsieur Thibault’s blood.
“I can stay with you,” he said.
“I’ll do better alone.” Emma hesitated before speaking again. “It’s not a good idea for you to stay.” She walked back to the casting room and withdrew the drape covering the masks. Her body sank, crestfallen at the sight. “His mask was nearly done.”
The lieutenant followed and then embraced her in his warm arms; the steely odor of adrenaline still clinging to his skin.
She gazed at his face, an invitation to intimacy, her fingers lingering on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart.
His eyes shifted in anticipation, drifting toward the ceiling and her bedroom above.
“No,” she said.
He smiled slightly, released her, and returned to the alcove for his coat. He wrote down a telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Emma. “I’ll call tomorrow, if you wish. Please telephone if you need me—I mean it sincerely—in the best possible way. Good night, Mrs. Swan. I wish you a Merry Christmas.” He opened the door and descended the stairs.
She walked upstairs alone. Virginie had already left, her bedspread creased with the signs of a hasty departure: Hassan’s door was closed.
Emma lit a fire and the light, warm and cheery, flickered against the walls of the garret. The moon, following its path, oblivious to the turmoil of the evening, still masked the brightness of the stars.
She undressed, shivered in her distress all the way to bed, and ached with sorrow for Monsieur Thibault. Despite her pain, she imagined what it would have been like to invite Lieutenant Stoneman upstairs to her bed for comfort and, perhaps, make love to him; but her thoughts turned to Linton as well, and then her husband. The world seemed as cold and lonely on this Christmas Eve as she could remember and love never farther away from her heart.
Late in the night, the fire died, the moon waned, and a silvery veil of stars shone through the window. Emma listened to the silence, stared into the starry deep, and cried as quietly as she could.
PART FOUR
PARIS JULY 1918
CHAPTER 7
“So you haven’t stopped working, have you?” John Harvey smiled at her from across the studio desk. “Do you have an ashtray in this bloody facility?”
“Virginie?” Emma called out. “Could you get John an ashtray from the alcove?”
Virginie peered around the door. “Yes . . . anything for his lordship.”
John snickered. “Obnoxious leopards never change their spots. I’m happy to see Virginia is her usual cranky self.” He struck a match and puffed on his cigar, taking in one deep breath as the tobacco fired red. “I’ve switched from cigarettes to cigars. Better for your health, I believe.”
“Virginie is only cranky when you’re here, John.”
“Bah, she’s a pain in the—”
“She’s a treasure.” Emma chuckled. “I don’t know what I would do without her. In fact, what I would do without my whole staff. Hassan has become quite expert at modeling, and Madame Clement takes care of us like a grandmother.”
The nurse entered and placed a metal ashtray on the desk in front of John.
“Thank you, Virginia,” John said. “What a pleasure it’s been to see you again.”
“You should visit more often,” she responded. “The Germans still sink ships in the Channel.”
“Well, fortunately for you I’ve arrived in one piece, saved from torpedoes; otherwise, you would be deprived of my company.” He blew smoke in lazy rings toward her.
Virginie coughed and waved her hands. “I must be going. I don’t like cigar smoke.”
“Too bad,” John said. “Perhaps I’ll see you again on my next visit.”
“I’ll be in my room,” Virginie said.
“Au revoir,” John said.
“Pitre,” Virginie muttered as she left the room.
“What did she say?” John asked. “I didn’t catch it.”
“She wished you a good day,” Emma said, knowing that the nurse had branded him a “clown.”
John rested his cigar on the ashtray. “Highly unlikely.”
Emma slid a few books away from the middle of her desk and leaned toward him. “So why are you here, John? I’m almost certain this isn’t a social visit.”
He lowered his head a bit and stared intently at the edge of the desk. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“Can’t say? That’s very unlike you.”
He shifted the cigar between his fingers. “I don’t mean to be evasive—let’s just say I was well protected during the Channel crossing. The entire German Navy wouldn’t have had a blighter’s chance against the convoy I was traveling in. Doctors sometimes get involved in wartime projects that are out of line with their normal duties.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
He nodded, flicked his cigar ash, and without hesitation asked, “How’s Tom?”
“He’s fine,” she said under the uncomfortable scrutiny of his penetrating gaze.
“He’s fine? That’s all? Now who’s being evasive?”
“I’ve been to Toul twice since Christmas for short visits—both times I planned the trip. The first time, in January, I helped Tom get comfortable in his cottage—straightened it up and cleaned for him. The second visit, in May, he was back to work fully and we barely had time to speak. It was just after the battle at Cantigny.”
“So you know about the American forces?”
“Word filtered down . . . even in Toul.”
He had not taken his eyes off her while positioning the cigar in the ashtray. “I must say, if you were one of my patients, I’d be treating you for malaise.”
Emma stared back indignantly. “Malaise? I have more work than my staff and I can handle. New patients arrive every day—all of them wanting some semblance of their lives back. If you treat me for anything it should be exhaustion.”
He pointed to the casts on the wall. “I see your work is going well. You have a reputation, Emma. I’ve even heard word of it in Porton Down. The French love you. They say you work miracles and talk about the wonders of your masks.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m flattered.”
He paused. “But they love Tom as well. They say he is a great surgeon.”
Emma picked up a pen and rubbed it between her fingers absentmindedly. “We do very different work. We’re very different people.”
John sighed. “As a friend to both you and Tom—and I know it’s not my affair—and may I say, you are very different people. . . but you’re married. Neither of you act like it.”
“Rather obvious, isn’t it.”
“Painfully so. I talked with Tom two weeks ago by telephone and I told him I was coming to Paris. I asked him to tell you about my trip and give you my regards. He said I would probably see you before he talked with you. I can’t believe this silence is just about your busy schedules.”
She leaned back in her chair. “To be honest, it’s not about our work. It’s about us.”
“I’m going to see Tom the day after tomorrow. I’ll be spending quite a bit of time in Toul. Is there anything you’d like me to do—anything you want me to say?”
“Thank you for the offer, but no.” Emma laughed.
“What’s so humorous?” John asked.
“I was going to ask you to tell Tom that I love him, but that’s rather ridiculous, isn’t it?”
John picked up the cigar and puffed on it. “It’s only ridiculous if it’s not true.”
Emma considered his words as smoke drifted through the room. Finally, she said, “I do love him. We’re both having a difficult time at the moment.”
“I’ll tell him you love him.” He ground his cigar tip into the ashtray and dusted the excess ash off with his finger. “It’s getting late—at least for me. I’m in Paris through tomorrow if you require my services. The Hotel Charles.” He opened his jacket’s breast pocket and dropped the cigar inside. “Please deliver my good-byes to Virginia and your staff. I
’m very pleased the Studio for Facial Masks is doing so well.” Emma escorted him to the door. “Remember, there is more to life than work.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Precisely.” Before he closed the door, he added, “I don’t have a wife, Emma. I have nothing but England, this war, and my work. You have so much more than I do.”
He bobbed like a cork down the staircase and crossed the courtyard to the tunnel. Then his footsteps disappeared into the sounds of rue Monge echoing through the walkway—chattering pedestrians, the clop of hooves, the “uh-ugah” of a distant automobile horn. On impulse, she ran to the casting room window and looked out on the street. The plump body and bald pate turned left toward the hotel. The street lay in shadow, but the sun, still heavy and warm in the July sky, made its presence known as it settled in the west. It was after nine in the evening and daylight would linger for another hour. There was time, before she trundled off to bed, to read a book, think about what John had said, and consider why love had deserted her.
* * *
The night, soft and languorous, drifted through the window like a secret lover. Virginie was fast asleep, her face turned away from Emma toward the wall. The silky July air stole across her body, caressed her skin like warm fingers. In the dark, Emma shifted restlessly on her bed and remembered a day long ago at her parents’ Berkshires farm near summer’s end when the air blew warm and soft through the window as well.
In the July heat, the sky flashed over Paris. The thunder’s low rumble assured her the threat was only rain, not a German attack. She rose from bed and watched as the clouds descended in dark veils over rue Monge. The rain began as soft sprinkles, but soon curtains of water lashed the street and cascaded down the gutters.
A deep sadness enshrouded her, when she remembered the melting faun in her Boston courtyard. But the memory of the faun shifted into an image much more unsettling—and her anger rose, despite the cooling rain, because she knew, as a woman, she had had no other choice. Much of her soul died that day.
* * *
Emma had tossed and turned, thinking about when American soldiers might arrive at the Studio for Facial Masks. The doughboys were increasingly involved in the war, but it was too early for Americans to appear on her doorstep, she concluded in restless musings before dawn. The Yanks fought their first battle at Cantigny during the last days of May, and Emma knew American soldiers would eventually need the studio’s services. However, months, possibly years, of hospitalization and operations lay ahead of a soldier before he could make his way to the studio.
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