Regardless, Emma was unsure about the nationality of the man who arrived one day after her disquieting thoughts. The soldier, attired in a Canadian uniform, had healed from his last round of surgeries. At first glance, she thought his recovery, accented by a splotchy redness of the skin, might be too soon for the mask. He was tall, blond, with a thin frame like her husband, and couldn’t speak, or chose not to, because of his injuries. The whole of his lower jaw was obliterated on both sides, as if someone had taken a knife and scooped out his face below the nose, like melon from the rind. However, something about him touched Emma: the way he regarded her with his eyes, the only part of his face, it appeared, unaffected by his injuries.
He sat in the alcove and curiously stared at her as she continued to work in the casting room. Virginie hovered over the man, asking questions in her best English, smiling and laughing in her natural role as nurse to the afflicted. Emma observed her interactions with the soldier as judiciously as she could. Her assistant asked questions and the soldier penned the answers on paper, using the alcove table as a writing desk. After one particular question, the soldier shook his head and scribbled violently across the page. Virginie nodded and walked into the studio.
“He wants to begin,” Virginie said. “His stomach is upset. He thinks he may be sick.” She thrust out the paper so Emma could read the scrawled writing.
“Show him to the washroom before we get started,” Emma said. “I have questions for him as well.”
Virginie nodded, returned to the alcove, and led the soldier down the hall.
Emma picked up the medical file the nurse had left on the desk. The soldier’s name was Ronald Darser, a native of Chicago, an American, but assigned to the 7th Canadian Infantry Brigade. The notes from the field hospital read: Mouth shot away from gunshot wound to chin. Fractured mandible with large loss of bone in symphysis region. Tongue extracted. The soldier had been injured at the Third Battle of Ypres, the Battle of Passchendaele, in April 1917. The file described an extensive list of surgeries, including a pedicle tube from his chest to chin to replace the missing portion of the chin, skin grafts, more pedicles, enlarging of the mouth and extraction of teeth. A difficult case, not only because of the disfigurement, but because the soldier had no hope of ever speaking again.
After a few minutes, the soldier reappeared in the hall, Virginie following him to Emma’s desk in the casting room. The man stood stiffly in front of her until she asked him to sit down.
“From your file, I’ve studied the nature of your injuries, Private Darser,” she said in a soft voice to allay any fears the soldier might have. “I’d like to ask you a few questions before we start the first cast. Is that all right with you?”
The soldier nodded.
“If you would be so kind,” Emma continued, “please write your answers on this paper so I can include them in your file.” She pushed a clean sheet across her desk and handed him a pen. “Do you have any allergies to dust or plaster?”
The soldier shook his head and wrote, No, holding the pen tightly in his right hand.
“How about allergies to metals, copper in particular?”
He looked at Emma intensely and wrote, Surgical steel, perhaps.
Emma studied the soldier quizzically. She thought the answer odd, but instead of questioning him decided to offer sympathy instead. “I can understand your aversion to surgery after having gone through so many operations. The whole ordeal has been very painful, I’m sure.”
He stared at her with his unflinching gaze. The strange color of his eyes, like the pale turquoise of thick winter ice, unsettled her. She shifted in her chair and rubbed her fingertips against the oak grain of the desk.
He wrote: You have no idea how painful this war has been for me. I appreciate your sacrifice, the work you do for me and others like me, but, suffice it to say, you have it easy. You sit here in Paris, in relative safety, while the bombs and the bullets of the world’s armies rend their terrible destruction. My life is destroyed and I can never get it back. He shoved the paper across the desk to her.
Emma took it gingerly. As she read his words, thoughts of the Christmas party—and Monsieur Thibault’s suicide—raced through her mind. Fearing this soldier might explode as well, Emma attempted to calm him. “Private Darser, our studio can help. I know you understand our work, and we can help you recover your face and life. You’ll be able to enjoy the company of your wife and friends again and be able to hold a job, if you wish, without fear of ridicule or laughter.”
He snatched the paper from Emma and scrawled the words in capital letters: I AM SILENCED FOREVER. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SILENCED, MRS. SWAN? I SUSPECT YOU HAVE. I CANNOT SPEAK; BUT, FAR WORSE, I HAVE NO ONE TO SHARE MY SILENCE.
The soldier dropped his head, and his shoulders trembled as he fought back sobs.
Emma touched his hand.
As she did so, he threaded his fingers through hers and grasped them tightly.
Emma flinched, but made no effort to withdraw. “I know silence,” she said, “a terrible, cold silence that fills the body, and when you think it’s released its frigid grip, it returns stronger and more deadly than ever. Yes, I’ve walked hand in hand with lonely silence—and suffered from its constant companionship, the suffocating withdrawal from pain. Suffocation can be as horrendous as loneliness.” Emma stopped, quieted by her thoughts. “Are you married, Private Darser? It was wrong of me to make such an assumption.”
He looked up and shook his head, his eyes softening a bit as he released her hand to write. Never—there was a girl once, but we came to a bitter end. She was quite beautiful and I loved her in my way, but she couldn’t understand my affection and I couldn’t convey it. I was younger then—if I had the chance today, I would be stronger and more forgiving. But she has moved on, and now I am mute.
“I understand, but you’re not mute. You’re talking with me now.”
He brought his hands to his face and covered his eyes for a moment. When he removed them, he wrote: Words, when spoken, last only seconds, but can change lives forever. How I wish I could correct the harm I’ve caused. How I wish she could forgive me for all that we went through. I could rest in peace if she would tell me that all was forgiven.
“I’m certain she would.” For a time, they studied each other from their respective viewpoints, until Emma spoke again. “Are you ready to begin? Virginie, I’m sure, has explained our work: the casts, the sculpting process, how we reconstruct the face as it existed before the injury, and finally the making of the mask. When the mask is painted, fitted, and ready, you will have—”
He placed his left hand over hers to quiet her. Dr. Harvey has explained everything. I am ready to begin.
With a start, Emma recognized the solider—he was the one who had arrived at John Harvey’s her first night in Paris.
* * *
Through the summer, the sweet perfume of yellow roses drifted through the house as Madame Clement continued her self-imposed task of finding flowers. More than anything, the housekeeper wanted to brighten the studio and make sure the casting room was filled each day with blooms. Monsieur Thibault’s suicide had affected her deeply, making her even more cognizant of the soldiers. Now, she offered each a cheery greeting, despite her own mood, and offered them food or drink before they had the chance to ask.
One evening in August, the exhaust, the smell of horses, lifted from the street into Emma’s bedroom and overtook the odor of the fragrant roses. She sat on her bed and leafed through the few letters she had received from Linton Bower. The last was dated July 23rd, 1918. She opened it gently as if it were an expensive gift. The paper smelled like the paint in Linton’s studio. It was his mark; his imprint upon the world he shared especially with her. The writing was his: choppy and scrawled across the page. There was no mistaking his hand; a few letters had arrived written by Anne on Linton’s behalf. They had been more formal, less revealing than when Linton desired an intimate message.
Emma stretched across her be
d.
My Dearest Emma,
I’m so happy we’ve been able to write to each other. You will, of course, excuse my handwriting. I didn’t want Anne to transcribe these words, although I’m having her address the envelope for fear of the letter not making it to Paris because of my bad hand.
By the way, Anne and Lazarus are fine. I believe you were quite correct in your assumptions about her—unlike Louisa’s assessment—she is the perfect housekeeper and organizer of your affairs, and she dotes on Lazarus, who seems, to me, to have become a very pampered and lazy animal, but still as kind and faithful a companion as one could ever require.
As you and I have corresponded, the connection between Anne and me has grown stronger. She’s been kind enough to ask me over for dinner. I think she truly enjoys having company—the house must get lonely at times—and my social calendar isn’t overflowing. One can attend only so many art openings and exhibits. Only Alex keeps me entertained on that account.
Anne has a beau, a young man she met the night of Fran Livingston’s party shortly before you left for France. But don’t concern yourself. I believe it’s just a flirtatious crush. Anne is too firmly rooted in Catholicism to allow any indiscretion. At first, I believed the young man was part of the Livingston circle, but then I discovered he is a protégé of Singer Sargent’s and is probably poorer than I am in bank account. Apparently, he is studying to be a painter, a questionable profession at best, as we both know.
It is difficult for me to express my true feelings in this letter. I’ve avoided them long enough by writing about Anne, her friend, and Lazarus, but I am acutely aware, as you have always claimed, that your first devotion is to your husband.
But dare I say it, in our recent correspondence, I detected a change. You’ve written only of your work and the soldiers who have come to your studio. I get the sense, even across the miles of ocean that separate us, a chasm has developed between you and Tom. I wonder if his injuries have somehow come between you, or if there is an emotional wound as well, which you alluded to in your last letter.
And that, my dear Emma, is the purpose of my writing on this glorious July day. The sun is bright enough I can see as clearly as I could ever hope to, and the sea breeze has swept away the heat from my door. I sit in front of the open window, grateful for the light and wish I could touch your face. What comfort that would give me since the pleasures of paint and canvas have begun to fail me. I wonder how you spend your days. Do you ever pine for me, as I long for you? But whenever our next meeting, you understand I am always here for you and always will be despite what happens between now and that glorious reunion.
I pray that our meeting will come soon—that this war will end and you and your husband and the soldiers will return safely to our soil. I write these words with my heart and no regard for the censors. Let them think what they will.
I’ve gone on for too long and the strain of writing has tired my eyes. I must rest and say good-bye. As it is, there will be no painting today, and tomorrow is questionable.
My thoughts are with you always.
Your dearest friend,
Linton Bower
Sometime after ten that night, the bedroom door opened. Virginie, who had spent the evening with a friend, said hello and sat on her bed. Emma was surprised to find she had dozed off while dreaming of meeting Linton again in Boston. The pages of his letter were scattered across the sheet.
* * *
The face of Private Darser took shape as Emma molded clay into the cavity left by the wound. She worked on the cast without assistance—a strange feeling coming over her as she sculpted. Across the studio, Hassan smoothed fresh plaster on another cast while Virginie stippled paint on a mask.
“This reconstruction is one of the most difficult I’ve worked on,” Emma said to Virginie and Hassan as she worked clay into the chin, “because there is so little left of Private Darser’s jaw and mouth. There is no mirror, no left and right, to gauge the reflection. I don’t know whether to make the chin with a cleft, or whether to make it weak or strong.”
“A man always likes a strong chin,” Virginie said.
Hassan nodded in agreement.
“Yes, but I will ask him,” Emma said. “I can picture his chin in my mind. . . .” Emma put the wooden sculpting tool down.
Madame Clement appeared at the door. “Private Darser is here for his appointment,” she said, her English coated with her usual French accent.
“Show him in,” Emma tugged at her jacket and took a quick glance at her own reflection before she pulled the studio curtains. Rather than put on a dress, she had opted for attire similar to a woman’s Army uniform. The jacket was severe and matriarchal, and she preferred to work in a dress, but Private Darser, in his formality, had influenced her, and she had come to realize how much of an effect, subtle at first, he had on her. Her choice of clothing was a result from their meetings, but she found herself, of late, thinking of him more and more because he was an American. When the sun flashed upon trees a certain way, or the air carried a damp sweetness, he entered her mind at the most unusual times and reminded her of New England.
He appeared without Madame Clement, stopping for a moment in the doorway, standing motionless, his starched shirt and scarf wrapped high and loose about his neck and face, covering the greater part of his injury. The light in the alcove behind him framed him in a diffuse glow.
“Please come in,” Emma said, struck by his austere and commanding presence.
As if energized by her words, the soldier strode toward her, withdrawing a pad and pencil from his pocket, handing her the pad on which he had written: There is no need to draw the curtains. I love the sunlight and summer is almost over. We should enjoy the beautiful weather while we can.
Emma looked at the note. “I understand your wishes, however—”
He waved his hand in front of her and wrote: I know of your unfortunate suicide. I have no wish to die. Please open the curtains.
Emma acquiesced to his request. Light flooded the room. “Better?”
He nodded.
Virginie patted the soldier on the arm. “We admire your courage.”
He wrote, Thank you, and added, Can we begin?
“I’d like to make another cast today. The first wasn’t to my liking.” She held up the form she had been working on. “Can you tell me if this chin is similar . . . ?” Emma paused, somewhat embarrassed by the indelicacy of her statement.
You want to know if it looks like my face?
“Yes, does it look like your face? I have no way of knowing.”
Private Darser looked at the cast, but wrote nothing.
“No opinion?”
Make my chin, my face, any way you wish. You are the sculptress, the artist, and I’m at your mercy. You may do with me whatever you like.
A shock raced up her spine, prickling her back. After a moment, when she had recovered, she said, “I’m not sure I understand.”
Of course, you understand. You have always understood your power. You are the sculptress and you may mold me as you wish.
“I see,” Emma said, cupping her hands together, wishing to move past his words. “Hassan, bring fresh plaster for another cast. We must work on Private Darser.”
Hassan lifted a pail and brought it to the chair. Emma covered the soldier’s clothes with an apron, drizzled the plaster over his face, and worked on the injured area gently, and as she did, the soldier responded to her fingers, shuddering as she applied the wet substance to his face, as if she had touched a raw and open wound.
* * *
The brown daisies, petunias, and marigolds continued to bloom in the Paris gardens, but Emma sensed a shift in the season. The sun had lost its warmth, the sky, more often than not, displayed a rich, autumnal, blue rather than the haze of summer. Gooseflesh broke out on her arms in the chilly dawn or at sunset.
At her studio desk, she gazed at the rows of casts hung upon the wall, focusing on one row in particular, those taken of Pr
ivate Darser. She opened the medical history of the soldier who was now solely under her charge and reread the recent note clipped inside the folder.
What is it about this man? He is unlike the others. Perhaps it’s because I am used to working with French soldiers—and this man is so different he’s gotten under my skin. I find myself consumed with his case to the detriment of others. I snapped at Virginie the other day, when I found her fussing with Darser’s final cast. She was taken aback when I told her that Private Darser was my case and that I was quite capable of handling him. I had never spoken to her like an underling—I apologized later in the day, but the damage was done. She was quite cool to me the rest of the week. When I attempted to convey the importance of the case to the studio, I found myself struggling for words—there was no real reason, other than my own infatuation with his face.
Emma studied the thin sheet of hammered copper. The mask—the lower half of Private Darser’s face—began below the eyes, and descended past the cheeks to the chin. When completed, the mask would attach to his ears with glasses and conceal the wound. A smile had formed on the lips—not an intentional effect, but one Emma decided was an optical illusion. The chin, full, but without a cleft, looked lumpish in form—another unintended flaw that needed correction.
At the end of the counter, Emma searched through the human hair samples. She picked a slightly darker shade than Private Darser’s blond, twisted it into a mustache and positioned it above the upper lip. The effect was handsome, but wrong. Private Darser wouldn’t wear a mustache, she knew intuitively, and wondered how she could be so certain in her assessment.
The Sculptress Page 28