If You Are There

by Susan Sherman

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes, of course. I spoke with Monsieur Arlington. He told me you wouldn’t be returning. It’s all right. We understand. It’s a good opportunity for you.”

  “Arlington told you.”

  Madame Curie’s attention was already back on her calculations. “A few weeks ago,” she said absently. Lucia knew she would soon be lost in them.

  “But I didn’t know a few weeks ago.”

  Reluctantly, Madame Curie lifted her eyes from the page and frowned. “Well, you do now. Anyway what difference does it make? It is done.” Then she made an effort to smile. She got up to hug Lucia, kissing her on both cheeks. “Be happy, Lulu,” she said gently. “You’re starting a new life.”

  Lucia should have felt a surge of relief. She told herself it couldn’t have gone better. She was free now to follow her own path. Yet, relief wasn’t exactly what she feeling when she walked out the door and down the drive. She thought she ought to say something to Arlington. It wasn’t right what he did. She was beginning to think that maybe Sapia wasn’t the difficult one, that maybe some of her complaints were justified. It was just possible that Arlington wasn’t the man she thought he was.

  She had brought back some gifts from Italy for Iréne, a stuffed bear and a little box with a ballerina on top. She had to go to the house in any case to retrieve the few things she had left there, nothing of importance, a few books and woolen stockings.

  When she arrived at the house she heard voices coming from the garden and went around through the garden gate. She thought to surprise them, so she peered around the corner while staying hidden behind the tangle of bare vines growing up the side of the house. She saw Iréne’s sleigh in the snow and heard her voice begging her grandfather for another push. She was just about to call out when she saw the doctor talking to a girl about her own age. He was showing her a horse chestnut.

  “I have no idea why they call it that. They’re not chestnuts, and if you feed them to a horse, they’ll convulse and die.” He scraped the pod with his thumbnail until he broke through the flesh and tore open the outer casing to reveal the nut inside. He held it out for the girl, who took it and ran her thumb over the smooth surface.

  “Can you eat it?” she asked. Her Polish accent was thick, her French awkward.

  “No, you’d end up like the horse. You can boil it and use the solution for laundry, but I’d be careful. It’s toxic. You know toxic?”

  Lucia had seen enough. She left the packages on the stoop and went out through the gate. She walked down to the omnibus stop and waited for one to arrive. No longer concerned about money, she climbed aboard, bought a ticket for the inside, and chose a seat next to a gentleman wearing a fine overcoat and gray kid gloves. As the omnibus rattled past the cemetery buried in snow, Lucia remembered what Madame Clos had told her that night at the guingette—about never forgetting that she was just a servant, no matter what anybody said.

  People grew accustomed to seeing Sapia and Lucia together. Their picture often appeared in the newspapers, usually in connection with someone well-known in the scientific community. Lucia was careful to cut out the clippings and paste them into a scrapbook that Sapia had bought for her when they were in Genoa. Sapia often bought little presents for Lucia, a tortoiseshell comb, a bit of old lace. She was generous but also jealous of Lucia’s time. She did not like being left alone and expected Lucia to be available whenever she wanted to go out. Once when Sapia was out at the salon de coiffeur, Lucia used this little slice of freedom to send a bleu to Gabriel. She waited for a reply, but it never came.

  When Sapia wasn’t doing private sittings or being investigated by various researchers, she took a flat in the 1st, on a little side street between the Louvre and the Banque de France. It wasn’t a fashionable neighborhood, but it was an easy walk to the cafés in rue de Rivoli where they ate almost every meal. Mostly, they went visiting, shopping, or took carriage rides in the park. The medium wasn’t one for walking. At night they got dressed up and went out to the dance halls or to the café-concerts to listen to the singers and watch the silhouette shows. Sapia favored the lower establishments where she was nearly always overdressed but felt most comfortable.

  It took several months, but by the summer Arlington’s leg had sufficiently healed so that now he could walk with a cane. Just before Edith returned home to Cincinnati she booked them into a little town called Port-des-Barques in southwestern France. It was a seaside resort in the Charente-Maritime department, not too far from Rochefort.

  Sapia had been hired to do a series of sittings for a French psychologist and his colleague, a Polish psychologist named Julian Ochorowicz. Lucia had never heard of this Ochorowicz, but she did know of his companion, the famous Polish writer Bolesław Prus. She had read The Doll twice and admired the writer immensely. She practiced what she was going to say once they were introduced. However, when the time came for introductions, all she could do was murmur a few phrases in Polish. She didn’t get to tell him how much she enjoyed his work until much later, at the end of the evening, when everyone was busy dissecting the sitting and by then her compliment seemed unimportant and easily brushed aside.

  Sapia was not pleased with the arrangements. She did not like the little port town. It was too quiet for her. She said there was nothing to do but eat fish. She said the hotel was too small and her room was not comfortable and did not have a private bath. “Primitif,” she said, with a look of disgust. She used primitive to describe all sorts of unpleasantries. Arlington had to remind her in a heavy voice that this was not a vacation. Nevertheless, that evening he made sure they served rabbit, one of Sapia’s favorites. Lucia went into the kitchen to supervise its preparation much to the ire of the cook. She ignored the woman and made a gorgeous Tuscan rabbit with pancetta, a recipe she had picked up in Italy. It had been months since she’d been in a kitchen and it felt like a homecoming.

  Since Sapia preferred company, and preferred talking rather than listening, Lucia often looked for moments to get away. When Arlington was around he gave her that opportunity by occupying Sapia with a game of piquet. Lucia took advantage of this arrangement in the early evening before the second sitting when she announced that she was a little tired and needed to lie down. While Sapia played cards with Arlington Lucia slipped out the side door and went for a walk down the main road that ran along the port.

  She followed the main street with its line of shops and hotels, past the official buildings, and finally onto a stretch of land covered in scrub oaks. From there she planned on following a causeway that led to an island called Île Madame, about two kilometers off-shore. She had gone to this island on their first day and knew it to be a pretty walk. Still, it was nearly half past seven by the time she reached the road and she thought about turning back.

  If it hadn’t been so beautiful, with the sun lying low and voluptuous on the horizon, streaking the sky with red and orange streamers, she might’ve turned around and missed it all: the sunset, the shorebirds, the jellyfish, and the rising tide. As it was, she walked on, ignoring the sign that warned of flooding at high tide, not believing for one minute that the tide could be high enough to cover the causeway, perched as it was at least ten meters above the mudflats on top of a steep embankment made of boulders and stones. So, even though she could see a shimmering ribbon of water far off on the horizon, she paid no attention to it and kept walking at a comfortable pace, seeing no reason to hurry.

  She had been thinking about Gabriel and wondering why he had not answered her bleu when she stopped to watch a phalanx of returning pelicans gliding along the shore, the oystercatchers and red knots scurrying over the mudflats, the setting sun like a glowing bowl of custard. She thought he probably didn’t get it or perhaps the reply had gotten lost. She pictured it stuck to the heel of a delivery boy.

  She was not alone on the road that evening. She regularly passed picnickers and walkers all heading back to the mainland. One father picke
d up a dawdling child and strode off with her on his shoulders. Another man walked with a dog that scampered up ahead. A few glanced over at Lucia; one blocky woman called out to her, telling her that she was going the wrong way.

  After a while Lucia found herself alone on the road, her eyes drifting out over the undulating mudflats to the horizon where the distant tide was wider now, more pronounced, and getting closer. She passed a couple too preoccupied to pay her much attention. The husband had hold of his wife’s arm just above the wrist and was pulling her along despite her complaints that he was going too fast.

  It occurred to Lucia how satisfied she was with her life now, how happy she was traveling with Sapia and helping people. Of course it was Sapia who mostly helped them; Lucia would occasionally contribute in some small way. The first time she asked a question of the spirits and got an answer it came as a shock, but by now she was used to it. She was even used to John King, that reprobate, who still presented her with a rose from time to time.

  She thought she might have some kind of power. Sapia was always going on about it and Lucia was beginning to believe her. She did not know how that fit into her view of heaven and earth. It was still a mystery how spirits and séances could be part of the same world as God and church. She hardly spoke to Saint Lucyna anymore. She hadn’t written to Babusia in weeks and she couldn’t find her rosary, which didn’t matter much because she hadn’t been to Mass or confession in a while. Of course, she still had her mother’s cross, hanging over her bed wherever that happened to be.

  Lucia did not begin to understand the danger she was in until she saw the jellyfish. It lay there like a purple helmet halfway up the embankment, a jellyfish on the boulders. It could have been a hatbox or a piece of pie or an armchair; it was that incongruous. It surprised her to see it lying there, hard and impenetrable, baked by the sun into another kind of boulder, its tentacles stretching out with monstrous delicacy. Now it made sense why the others were hurrying back to the mainland. The ocean obviously came up that far. It would have to in order to strand the jellyfish. Still, it was on the slope of the embankment, not on the roadbed, so she didn’t see any reason for alarm.

  Further on she saw the rest of them strewn out on the road: large and small ones, baby jellyfish, giant ones too, like solid puddles of water. It had been a school of them swimming over the causeway, the roadbed far beneath them under the water. The tide had gone out so quickly that they didn’t have time to swim away. Now it was coming back in and soon the causeway would be underwater again.

  I can’t swim.

  Lucia turned back, tramping over the uneven road, stopping from time to time to check on the progress of her pursuer. The tide had already surrounded the island and was lapping at the embankment. She couldn’t believe how quickly it rose. When it was halfway up the steep slopes she broke into a run. She ran past the bickering couple and a few minutes later the man and his dog. When she couldn’t run anymore, she limped over the dusty road, pressing the cramp in her side, until she finally came to the entrance and safety.

  “Isn’t it a risk walking out there at high tide?”

  She had just reached the main road and was bent over trying to catch her breath when she straightened and found Gabriel Richet sauntering over. “What are you doing here?” she asked. She suddenly felt hot all over.

  “Looking for you.” He handed her a red poppy that he had picked from a field nearby.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I asked for you at the hotel.”

  “No, I mean here, in Port-des-Barques.”

  “I’m a journalist, mademoiselle.” He said this with a blithe half-smile. “We find people.”

  She tried not to show her pleasure. “And why did you want to find me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d sing for me.” She gave him a look and he laughed. “What were you doing out there? Planning on swimming with the jellyfish?”

  “I didn’t know the tide was so high. I thought the road would be safe.”

  He looked at the sign that warned of high tides and raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I know,” she sighed. “Perhaps, I’ve been a little reckless.”

  “Perhaps. I hope you swim well.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re a fast walker.” He took her hand as natural as could be and they walked back toward the town.

  “So why are you here, really?” she asked.

  “I’m writing a story.”

  “What about?”

  He shrugged, but instead of answering her he stopped to watch a chevron of birds gliding along the shoreline. “What are those?”

  “Gannets.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, gannets. Unmistakable.”

  He stopped to give her an admiring look. “It’s safe to say, mademoiselle, that I don’t know any other girl in France who could name that bird.”

  Lucia beamed with pride. He was right of course.

  They were passing a café that catered to the fishing families. Through the curtained window Lucia saw two old men in stocking caps, their heads bent to their plates, finishing up their supper. Once she and Gabriel were on the steps of the hotel she thought about inviting him into the lobby. She was just wondering what Marta would have to say on that subject when he turned to her and casually asked about Eusapia Palladino.

  “Yes, we’re here doing a series of sittings.”

  “Could you get me an invitation?”

  “I don’t know. It might be difficult. Monsieur Arlington is very strict about who attends. He doesn’t like journalists.”

  “He knows me. And he knows my brother. Surely, he can make an exception.”

  “I’ll ask. That’s all I can do.”

  They agreed to meet the next day. Before he released her hand he brought it to his lips. “A bit of advice, mademoiselle. Read the warning signs. Believe it or not the locals know something about their tides.”

  She nodded and watched him go. When he turned back once to wave, she thought she should have invited him in.

  Arlington came down the next morning moving surprisingly well for a man still dependent on a cane. He eased himself into a chair across from Lucia, careful to keep his leg straight out in front of him as he sat down with a groan. “The worst is trying to pull up my pants,” he said, picking up a menu.

  They had their pick of the tables since they were the only two guests in the room. It was early in the season and the summer rush hadn’t started yet. Lucia had chosen a table by a large sunny window that looked out on the mudflats where a small fleet of fishing boats lay on their sides on the exposed sea bottom. Arlington put down the menu and gazed out on the bay. “I want you to stay close to Sapia during the sittings. Keep an eye on her.”

  “Why?”

  He regarded her with irritation. “Just do it, please.”

  When the waiter came to their table Arlington ordered two café au laits, a plate of cheese, croissants, and fruit.

  Once they were alone Lucia leaned in. “Why did you do that?” she asked quietly.

  “What?”

  “Why did you order for me?”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted. That’s what you usually get.”

  “What if I wanted something else? What if I wanted smoked fish or an egg?”

  “Do you want smoked fish or an egg?”

  “I don’t want you to order for me.”

  His eyes settled on her. “What is it, Lulu?”

  She took a deep breath. “Why did you tell Madame Curie that I wasn’t coming back?”

  “You weren’t coming back.”

  “But I didn’t know that at the time. You told her weeks before I decided to stay.”

  “Yes, and then you made your decision and it was a good one. And now you’re here with us.”

  She crossed her arms and looked out on the anchors of the fishing boats, brightly colored lead balls, deceptively nimble and playful
in the fresh morning light.

  He sighed. “Yes, all right. I shouldn’t have done it. I should’ve waited for you.”

  Lucia pursed her lips and said nothing.

  “I’m apologizing, what else do you want?”

  Afterward, they took a short stroll along the sea wall to give Arlington a chance to exercise his leg. She thought that now that he was feeling contrite it might be a good time to bring up Gabriel.

  “I ran into Gabriel Richet yesterday,” she said, casually. She noticed that he grew starchy at the mention of his name. “He wants to come to a sitting.”

  “We don’t allow journalists. I hope you told him that.”

  “I don’t think he would be coming as a journalist. He’s interested in spiritualism. He mentioned his brother.”

  “No, it’s impossible. The table is full, in any case.”

  “He would only come the one time. We could make room.”

  He regarded her for a moment. “You like this fella?”

  Lucia wavered. “I hardly know him.”

  Arlington’s gaze drifted out over the flats. The exposed seabed looked choppy like the sea that had formed it. It was furred with green algae still soggy from a night under the water. “I think it’s best if you don’t talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s not exactly a friend of ours.”

  “But his brother—”

  “He’s not like his brother. His brother is a scientist who treats our work with interest and respect. This man is a reporter, and not a very good one at that. He wants a story. He wants to insult Sapia and make a headline.”

  “He’s not like that. He is kind and concerned about science. He wrote a good article about the Curies and showed great care for their well-being.”

  “You don’t know him, Lucia. You don’t know anything about him. Please tell him you want nothing more to do with him.”