Then she heard a woman’s voice calling out from the front garden, sharp and woeful.
“Pierre!”
It was Madame Curie standing on the path, shivering in her nightdress. “Pierre. Come home, Pierre.” She was calling up to the stars in a voice awash with grief and longing.
Lucia grabbed a shawl off the hook and ran out to her, wrapping it around her shoulders, rubbing her arms to warm them.
“He isn’t here, Lulu. I thought I felt him, but he isn’t here.”
“Come in. It’s cold.”
She shrugged off Lucia’s hands. “No. I want him to come back. I want him to walk through the gate.” She kept her eyes on the stars as if she could find him there among the constellations. She called out to him again.
Lucia followed her gaze up to the Great Chariot. There was the box; there was the shaft. There were the two stars Merak and Duhbe—Merak on top, Duhbe pointing the way to Polaris. She could see the Great Chariot and most of Ursa Major, but Monsieur Curie was not among them.
After she put Madame Curie back to bed she went to her old room in the cupboard off the kitchen. She had been staying there ever since Monsieur died. She did not want to go back to Sapia’s, not yet. It felt like home here with the Curies, like returning to her childhood bed. She lay there thinking about Babusia, Poland, her father and her siblings. She said a prayer for Madame, for the girls and the doctor. It had been a while since she had spoken with God. It felt awkward, like a pose. She liked it better under the stars, their blue light shining cold and mysterious, yet tangible, an observable expanse, a tapestry of knowable phenomena just up there in the sky.
She woke in the middle of the night to the sound of someone pacing the house. She heard padded footfalls and for an instant her mind brought her back to the nights when she lived here, when Monsieur stayed awake roaming the house because of the pains in his legs. Then she remembered that Monsieur couldn’t possibly be wandering the house, that he was gone, and that she must have been dreaming.
She lay back down and closed her eyes. She was nearly asleep when she heard it again, shuffling in the kitchen, right outside the curtain. It sounded like stocking feet on the linoleum floor. She smelled something acrid, like burning electrical wires, and froze when she heard a tendril of breath near her ear. She told herself not to be frightened. Still, she felt a cold stone in her stomach.
She parted the curtain with trembling fingers and looked out—a sliver of moonlight cast a wedge on the tablecloth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to show her that the kitchen was empty. She wanted to ignore the presence, to assign it to the juddering leaves of the sycamores, but she knew it was there and that, somehow, it was meant for her.
She heard or thought she heard a string of whispered utterances difficult to make out. It might have been the leaves in the night breeze, except for the undertone of urgency. She waited until the stone in her stomach melted away, until her fingers stopped trembling, and her breathing grew regular.
She felt strong. She wasn’t afraid after that, because she knew what he wanted.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Then to the corners of the empty room, to the space over the stove, to the air all around her, she said: “Don’t worry, Monsieur. I will look after her.”
CHAPTER 14
May 1906
A few weeks later Lucia strode into Madame Curie’s room and opened the drapes. Sunshine flooded the room, teasing the dark corners and flashing off the mirror. This time there was no protest. There was no greeting either, no attempt to be cheerful. In silence they both got down to their tasks. Madame Curie climbed out of bed on her own. Lucia was already at the armoire pulling out one of the two black dresses that her former mistress owned. Lucia did not like to compare Madame’s things to Sapia’s. There was something so fragile and helpless about Madame’s old corset and plain cotton shift. Especially when compared to Sapia’s long straight-fronted corset with the line of pink rosebuds on the bodice and embroidered silk shifts.
Lucia helped her dress. First the heavy cotton stockings, then the shift, the corset, and finally the dress along with its plain cloth belt. She pinned up Madame Curie’s hair and brought over her shoes. Finally, at the front door she helped Madame with her coat, gave her a moment or two to collect herself, and opened the door.
The weather was on their side that day. It was cold, but fine. Buds lined up on the hydrangea branches awaiting their turn to open. The garden smelled of loamy soil, mold, and wet bark so sweet that Lucia could taste it in the back of her throat. They walked to avenue d’Italie to find a taxi. Lucia knew Madame Curie couldn’t manage an omnibus filled with people. One of them was bound to recognize her, and there would be a flurry of whispers and long, sympathetic faces. Lucia held her up as they plodded along, Madame leaning on her arm, putting one foot in front of other, her features a mask of endurance.
They found a taxi and Lucia helped Madame Curie inside. Then she climbed beside her, leaning forward to give the address to the driver. He nodded once and eased the motor out into traffic. As they traveled up the avenue Madame Curie sagged against the cushions, her cheeks ruddy from the cold, her eyes dull and somber. Lucia was glad that most of the black bunting had disappeared from the lampposts. It had been weeks since Monsieur’s death, and the city had moved on.
They traveled up to avenue des Gobelins and onto the bridge. It was odd to see the world continuing as if nothing had happened: a patron at an outdoor café raising a hand to signal a waiter, nounous gossiping in the park, an argument between two shopkeepers. It all seemed unreal to Lucia, like a moving picture show, like observing the world from inside a glass bowl.
When they reached their destination Lucia paid the driver and helped Madame Curie to the sidewalk. There were stairs to climb, a lift just big enough for the both of them, and then a long hallway, footfalls ringing off the Moroccan tile, and a door at the end. It opened as they approached.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Eusapia Palladino said, stepping aside to let them in.
Sapia brought them into the parlor and gave Madame Curie the most comfortable chair in the room, the one she usually sat in. She and Lucia took the sofa. Sapia had arranged for tea and had been to her favorite bakery for cat’s tongues. It was all laid out on the best lace tablecloth. At first no one spoke, no pleasantries, just a few questions. “Cream? No? Lemon?”
Sapia did not ask how Madame Curie was doing. Over the years her experience with widows had taught her not to ask that. Instead she sipped her tea and ate her cat’s tongues and talked a little of the weather and a bit about their recent trip to Genoa. Sapia’s voice was generally loud, but today she spoke just above a whisper. Lucia kept an eye on Madame Curie in the overstuffed chair, looking small and vulnerable, like a wintering animal in its den, the cushions billowing up around her, sheltering her, keeping her apart and numb, or so Lucia hoped. Withdrawn and silent, obediently holding her plate of uneaten biscuits.
“I can help you,” Sapia said at last.
“I don’t think anyone can help me.”
Sapia smiled. “He is not gone.”
“He is dead.”
“But he is not gone. You have felt him near you, yes?”
Marie Curie looked up sharply, her face fixed with astonishment. “Yes, I have,” she whispered. “I have felt him.” Her eyes flooded with tears, but this time they were tears of relief. “How is it possible?”
“I only know that it is.” Sapia rose and held out her hand. “Come, I think it’s time we begin.”
She led Madame Curie into the little room she used for séances. Lucia followed them until Sapia stopped her at the door. “I won’t be needing you today, dolcezza. Madame Curie and I should be alone.”
Before Lucia had a chance to respond, the medium shut the door.
Lucia had made plenty of cakes over the years, pies too, pastries of all kinds, but she had never bought one from a bakery. This was an inferior confection to Lucia’s way
of thinking, a butter cake with too much sugar and too little invention. However, it was Sapia’s favorite, mainly because the icing was blue, and blue was her favorite color. She loved the rosebuds and the butterflies made out of pink sugar. If it had been a dress, the medium would have worn it.
Lucia had just left the shop when she encountered Gabriel Richet. She was looking right at him without seeing him because her mind was preoccupied with keeping the cake box dry in the rain. They met crossing the street.
“Mademoiselle Rutkowska, what have you got there?”
She was holding the box in one hand and her umbrella in the other. The umbrella was Italian. Sapia had bought it for her in Venice. “Something I want to keep dry.”
“Then we must get you out of the rain,” he said, walking her to the curb where they stood under an awning. “I saw you at the funeral. I wanted to come over.”
“I know,” she said. She kept her eyes on the passing crowd, her expression cool and indifferent.
He studied her for a moment or two. “Still angry I see,” his lips bunching in irritation.
“No, I am not angry. I do not know you well enough to be angry.” She wished him a good day and tried to walk on, but he didn’t step aside for her.
“How is your Madame Palladino?” he asked, making no attempt to keep the edge out of his voice.
Lucia gave him a brief smile. “She continues to help people.”
“I’m sure she does. I’m working on an article that may be of interest to you. Mediums in Paris, their methods and talents. I’m including many secrets of their craft.”
“Craft? I did not know there was a craft.”
“Oh yes. There is a craft.”
“Well, no doubt there are some who would find this interesting. I’m not one of them. Good day, Monsieur Richet.”
She went around him and walked on. She quickened her pace, but he matched it. “Do you know how they make guitars play on their own?”
“Isn’t there some other tragedy in the city you could exploit? The death of a child perhaps, another mine disaster?”
“A music box in a hidden compartment. They have lots of hidden compartments. In their clothing, in their boots. They hide all kinds of things in them, netting for robes, ectoplasm made out of cloth. I think my brother will find that interesting, don’t you agree?”
“I do not know what your brother will find interesting. And I wish you would find another place to walk.”
He stopped in front of a toy shop and called after her. “Someday you may want to know the truth, mademoiselle. And when that time comes, I hope you’ll be ready for it.”
Madame Curie often came to rue Hérold, sometimes for a sitting, sometimes just for a visit. Lucia, who was once again living in Sapia’s apartment, was never allowed in the séance room but she would sit with them beforehand and listen to Sapia’s stories, which Madame Curie seemed to find interesting. Madame usually arrived distracted, dour, and hectic, barely holding herself together, but then in a little while she would relax some and even seemed to be consoled by the time she spent with the medium. Sometimes their sittings would last for an hour or more, sometimes less. Lucia would wait for them in her room or in the parlor and then she would see Madame Curie down the lift and make sure she got a taxi.
One night when it was raining Sapia decided they would stay in. They had a fire going in the stove, which Lucia would feed from time to time while she read out loud from the latest installment of a roman-feuilleton. Sapia had brought over a lamp to the table by her chair so she could better see the pillowcase she was embroidering, a bluebird perched on a branch covered in dogwood blossoms. Sometimes she commented on the story, but more often she liked to guess what was going to happen next.
“Your Madame Curie is getting better, yes?”
“She is working again in the laboratory.”
“Good. Monsieur Pierre was very stern about that. He said you must work, Marie. You must go to the laboratory. She listens to him, eh?”
“She always has. What else did he say?”
Sapia looked up and then shook her head. “No, Lucia. Some things are just between a husband and wife.”
“So she speaks with him?”
Sapia went back to her embroidery. “Mostly, she remembers.”
Lucia rose early the next morning and threw back the drapes, stepping out through the French doors to the little balcony with its wrought iron table and chairs. She put on a heavy coat and warmed her hands around the steaming cup of café au lait. She ignored the chill in the air and slid into her chair, stretching to get a view of the street over the railing. She loved this time of the day when the maids were out washing the stoops and polishing the brass doorknobs and knockers. The tradesmen trundled by in their carts or on foot, delivering eggs and butter, milk and cream, and ice to the larger flats along the avenue. Her former life looked so appealing from five floors up, so regular and ordered, that she almost missed it. She gave a wave to the little kitchen maid across the way, who waved back with her polishing rag. This had been their ritual for months now, even though they had never spoken to each another.
Sapia was not an orderly person and was used to leaving her things lying around the sitting room or wherever she happen to drop them. Even though they employed a girl, Lucia was used to picking up after her.
Later that morning, after Sapia had left for the salon de coiffure, Lucia picked up a scarf and a pair of shoes by the sofa and a jar of rouge on the mantel and brought them back into Sapia’s room where she put the scarf back in the drawer and the rouge on the dressing table where it belonged.
She was about to put the shoes back on the rack when she stopped to admire them. They were well made, black, and they buttoned up the side. They looked comfortable, the leather being of the finest quality, pliable and soft. They were light and had mother-of-pearl buttons. She placed them on the shelf next to Sapia’s evening slippers, the ruby-red ones with jet beads on the toe and ribbons for straps. She often admired Sapia’s collection of shoes. There were so many lined up on the rack, ones for every occasion, that she wondered how the medium found the opportunity to wear them all.
By early afternoon Sapia returned looking well coiffed and chatting about the gossip she had heard in Madame Capillissima’s. It had turned into a warm day, so they decided to have lunch out on the balcony. They talked about what they would do that evening and their upcoming trip to Genoa, where Sapia was scheduled to do a series of sittings. Madame Curie wasn’t expected until two, which gave Sapia time for a nap.
She unbuttoned her boots and kicked them off. She slipped out of her dress and dropped it on the floor before padding off to her room. Out of habit Lucia picked up the dress and laid it over a chair. She picked up the shoes and was about to put them by the dress when she stopped to take a better look.
They were different from the other pair. These were black with white uppers. She always wanted a pair with white uppers. She noticed that the little buttons up the side were abalone, like drops of oil swirling on water. She turned the heel this way and that, admiring the fine stitching, and that’s when she felt a button on the inside of the heel. She was just thinking that it was odd to have a button there, on the inside of a shoe, when she found that she could press it like a doorbell. Instead of chiming, it clicked. It was surprising how easily the heel of the shoe opened—designed on a hinge, so it would be wide enough for the foot to slip out, quiet and smooth. As if by magic.
That afternoon Madame Curie arrived at four o’clock and she and Lucia waited in the parlor for Sapia to join them. During their tea and conversation Lucia kept a sharp eye on Sapia’s shoes. She was wearing black boots, but Lucia could see only the toes peeking out from under her long skirt and couldn’t tell if they had white uppers.
Finally, when Sapia ushered Madame Curie into the séance room and shut the door, Lucia decided to look for the boots. She had to be sure that Sapia wasn’t wearing them, that she hadn’t smuggled tricks into the séance roo
m for the purpose of deceiving Madame Curie. She went to the obvious place first: the rack in Sapia’s armoire. It took only a moment to see that both pairs of boots were missing. She dropped to her knees and looked under the bed, then in the bathroom, and finally under a pile of clothes in the corner. She searched the parlor, the kitchen, and even the balcony. They weren’t there.
Lucia placed her hand on the doorknob to the séance room and was about to turn it when she happened to glance back at the mirror over the mantel. There in the corner she saw the reflection of one shoe, a shoe with abalone buttons, a black boot with a white upper, lying on its side and half hidden under the armchair in the corner. She paused and then deliberately lifted her hand off the doorknob and returned to her seat.
Since Lucia usually saw Madame Curie down after the sittings, it was only natural that she would accompany her on that day. They stepped out of the flat and walked down the long hallway to the lift. Lucia pressed the button, and they waited for it to arrive. Madame Curie looked better for the time she spent with Sapia. She was energetic and preoccupied, no doubt having a think. That could change once Lucia told her. She might lose Monsieur all over again. Then there would be nothing but a corpse in the ground, nothing to bring his wife relief, to give her a little peace from the unremitting loss and loneliness.
When the lift came, Lucia slid back the gate and followed Madame Curie inside. She pressed the down button, causing the gears to complain as the tiny box began its slow descent to the street. The funeral came to mind. Gabriel’s look of contrition. His words on the street. Did she want to know the truth? She did want to know. More than anything she wanted to know before the lift reached the first floor. By the third floor Lucia decided that Madame had to know. To keep the evidence from her would have been unthinkable. She had devoted her life to the pursuit of empirical evidence. Truth was the driving force that animated her, this need to know. She would want the truth. She would want to draw her own conclusions, no matter what the consequence.
If You Are There Page 26