The Painting

by Nina Schuyler

  She asked his name.

  After a strange, elongated pause, he said he couldn’t remember.

  But you’re not French, she said, smiling, sitting upright in her chair.

  No.

  Well, we’ll think of a name for you.

  He hadn’t forgotten his name, but there were many things he was working hard not to remember, and he knew he had to be particularly careful around this woman because she reminded him of someone, not by the way she looked, but by her very being, the goodness that radiated from her. He felt it when he first met her, the way she seemed to glow. He barely spoke with her in the hospital because it terrified him, the resemblance; he wanted to be close to her and at the same time stay far away.

  He tosses the newspapers on the storage room floor, and as he listens to her singing, he feels his eyelids twitch with grim apprehension.

  SHE PLUCKS OFF HER large-rimmed hat and surveys the room, the shelves stocked with canned foods, water stored in beautiful midnight-blue glass bottles, fancy boxes of chocolates wrapped in dark-red cellophane. There is probably more food here than in five Parisian kitchens, perhaps even more, she thinks, trying to push away the disdain at her younger brother’s plenitude. Such lavishness, such decadence, and she feels ashamed for herself, for her young brother, Pierre, then angry at his extravagance. She dismisses these thoughts quickly, reminding herself not to think badly of him. A plain biscuit, only, and coffee, no sugar, that will be her lunch.

  Hello? she calls out to the back office, where she usually finds Pierre. The room answers with silence, and she is relieved. He is probably courting some customer; too in love with the war for the money it pours into his coffers, he is blind to everything else, as if someone swept his insides with a broom, removing the things that make a man noble, honorable, and virtuous. She is about to lament his poor moral condition again, but catches herself. I must do better at loving him, she chides. Not snap at him for his stinginess or when he complains that I should marry or that I am more manly than womanly. He generously gives me money or food or other provisions when needed, yet he does it with an air of superiority.

  She makes herself some coffee and sinks into a chair, tired from her work. A month ago, she repaired her first rifle and the head boss watched over her shoulder, his face full of skepticism. Today, he told her she was his best worker and paid her an extra franc. All she wants is to do good, to live in goodness. When she’s had too many bad thoughts in a day, she imagines a string of pearls running through her front side, down her body, looping around and coming up her spine to her skull. Over and over she runs this string, a ritual of cleansing. Lately, the pearls have stayed packed away in their box. She is so busy with her war efforts, she has so little time to think.

  She stands, stretches, and pours herself more coffee. Outside, a tree stripped of its leaves; its long, thin branches scrape against the window. So beautiful, she thinks, the tree baring its essence. And this is what she looks for in people, hunts for in their eyes. In adults, there is usually only a flash, if that, and then the dullness. But in newborns, it is always there—an honest knowingness that exists beyond words. Sometimes she thinks she sees it in her eyes, a certain unmistakable glow, and she imagines her insides illuminated. But when she mentioned this light to Father Bertrand, his rheumy eyes dropped to his scuffed shoes, and he warned her she had much to learn before God came to her in such ways. He must have seen her face fall in shame because he took her lightly by the elbow and said she was a good child of God.

  She hears a loud thump upstairs. She glances up and smiles. The Dane, she thinks. What name should she give him? Maybe Case, she thinks, and if he looks at her puzzled, she will say, In French, it means chest. But he probably won’t recall that night, and even thinking about it now, his hand reaching for hers across the darkness, she, startled out of her sleep, the rising and falling of his warm chest, she feels embarrassed and still unsure whether it really happened.

  The Dane’s eyes do not burn with anything, and she has come to think he does not see or feel much at all. Locked away into himself, he seems a confusion of impatience, and there is a constant disquiet about his dark sullen eyes and perpetual frown. But there must have been a flicker of something. That one night she didn’t come by the hospital, too exhausted from work. When she arrived the next morning, Edmond told her that in the middle of the night he felt overcome with thirst and called and called, but no one would come. The Dane finally sat up in his bed and grabbed a nurse by the wrist. Get him some water, he hissed. Do it now. The frightened woman quickly brought him a jug. Even now, thinking about it, she’s still surprised the Dane did such a thing. He does not seem like a generous man. In the hospital, he barely spoke a word to her or her brother. They had, for the most part, left him alone.

  Perhaps his name should be Donatien, she thinks, and she will say, French, my dear friend, for gift. A gift to my brother, she thinks, hopefully both brothers. She prays this arrangement works out, prayed in church this morning, but knows Pierre is not a patient or kind man. It was just luck that Pierre’s assistant quit the week before to join the army. She boasted to Pierre that the Dane was a good worker, educated, and she exaggerated only slightly when she told him the Dane was fluent in five languages and excellent with numbers.

  She steps into the kitchen, and as she cleans Pierre’s pile of dirty dishes and her cup, she hums a tune they sang this morning at church. A lovely song, she thinks, looking out the window. “May We Rise to the Lord in the Heavens.” The words flow as she scrubs the grime from Pierre’s good china plate. A quick visit with the Dane, with Donatien, she corrects herself, smiling, and then she must hurry to the hospital before returning to work.

  From the kitchen window, she sees a group of Parisians walk by, waving open champagne bottles and singing La Marseillaise. She’s never heard the French national anthem sung in public. Napoléon III banned it years ago, afraid of its revolutionary associations. Let us go, children of the fatherland, our day of glory has arrived. Ever since the French declared war on the Prussians, Paris has felt perversely festive. She forgets herself sometimes, forgets that this mood is about war. Seeing the celebratory people, the excited mood, she feels compelled to join in. To arms, citizens! Form up your battalions. Let us march! Let us march! That their impure blood should water our fields. She imagines herself thrusting a French flag high in the air, leading a parade around the city. Shouts envelop her and her followers, who number in the hundreds; they sing and chant and the city becomes enlivened again, believing that God is on their side. She carries a bundle of her favorite flowers in her arms, dark red roses, white lilies, and blue peonies, and tosses them to people in the crowds that line the thoroughfares.

  She watches the celebrators pass by, her head tilted to the right, her face soft, a dreamy glaze over her eyes.

  THE DAMN PARISIANS ACT as if they’re on holiday, thinks Jorgen, as he shambles on crutches over to the window. Someone opens a champagne bottle and white foam shoots into the air. The crowd screams with delight. An open carriage rolls by and the men inside wear goatees and red carnations. They wave a big French flag, bright green wine bottles gripped in their hands, and lying across their knees, a drunken woman, her bosom half exposed for the men to fondle. Jorgen slumps against the wall, feeling nothing as he stares at the woman’s breasts, only a dullness in his senses.

  Beyond the people parading down the street, the great trees that lined the Bois de Boulogne lie on the ground like fallen giants. Scrawny cats dig their claws into the flaking bark, and children with dirty faces and fingers saw off limbs for the fireplace. Next to the scavengers, men and women sit on the cement drinking champagne from a bottle. Jorgen dabs the sweat from his forehead.

  Last week, when he was walking down the Bois de Boulogne from the hospital to the boardinghouse, he overheard two women discuss how the paintings in the Louvre will be saved after all. The officials removed the paintings from their frames, rolled them up, and sent them to the prison at Bres
t.

  They are packed in boxes and marked with the word FRAGILE, said one woman, her voice excited and shrill.

  Thank God. We can’t lose our national treasures, says the other, aghast.

  Can you imagine if we lost the Mona Lisa? Or if Fragonard’s The Bathers was scratched?

  The French and their obsession with beauty, he thought then, and he thinks again now, watching them celebrate. Why did he join the French army? An incompetent, ill-equipped army, disillusioned by their earlier conquests, and look at them, their frivolity, and the way the man publicly touches that woman’s breast. What other country allows their rich young men to pay another, a foreigner at that, to take his place in a war? Perfectly legal, this so-called blood tax or substitution. He thinks now of the wealthy Frenchman, dressed in fox furs and a shiny black top hat, a cane for affectation, who paid him handsomely, handed him his draft notice, and told him to go as his replacement to his brigade. Jorgen couldn’t believe it was legal. Quite legal, said the Frenchman. As long as I provide someone in my place, the French army does not care. He told Jorgen he was heading for the Mediterranean to sun himself until the war was over, then he would return, but only if Paris wasn’t in shambles. Adieu, my friend, adieu, adieu. Appalling, thinks Jorgen, but what choice did he have? He could never fight on behalf of Prussia. The Germans killed his great-uncle in the Danish-German War. When he joined, he was certain, as everyone was, that France’s superior military prowess would end the war swiftly. When he saw how unorganized, how chaotic the French army officials were, he envisioned himself soon placed in charge of a unit, in recognition of his abilities, and he’d be covered in medals, hoisted up above the shoulders of his men in a cushion of hoorays. But none of that happened, and who would have guessed he’d be standing here without a leg?

  Tired of the noise, he shuts the window. He hears her come up the stairs, her voice singsong, a hello, hello ringing. He’ll tell her he’s too busy to talk. Look at all these boxes, he’ll say. And your brother, you must know, is a difficult man. He pokes the end of his crutch at the thin paper lying on the floor, sweeping it up in one big arc. Her song is coming closer. He’s about to throw the paper away, but there is something printed on it. She is coming down the hallway. He doesn’t have time to look. That humming is outside the door. He plucks the paper off the end of his crutch and tucks it into his bag of goods.

  Hello there, she says, peeking her head into the room. I won’t stay long. I wanted to see if you were doing all right.

  Busy, but fine, he says, his tone subtly defensive. He leans against his crutch and studies the toe of his black boot.

  Good. My brother. He has a rather brisk manner.

  I’ve no complaints. He closes his mouth hard and begins unpacking another box.

  I’m sure it will be fine, she says, gripping and twisting her hat in her hands. I just came by to see if you needed anything.

  He does not feel he owes her anything. For this job, this shelter. Happenstance, he thinks. Pierre needed a worker and he was available; he will do a fine job, and actually, her brother is getting a good deal, given the small wage Pierre is paying him.

  She steps in through the doorway and surveys the boxes. A scent follows her. Not perfume, he thinks, but something slightly sweet. She tells him she’s left some lunch downstairs for him.

  That’s not necessary, he says, bristling.

  Oh, I know, she says, now twirling her hat. She steps farther into the room. It’s filthy in here. Look at all that dust. How do you breathe?

  She rushes to the window and opens it. There. Soon it will be autumn and the air will turn cool. I love the cold air, don’t you? Most people hate it, but I don’t. Well, I’m off to see Edmond. He’s doing much better. Much, much better. He laughed yesterday. I forgot what I said that made him laugh, but he did. It was a wonderful sound, a melody I’d almost forgotten. Pierre and I are his only family, you know. Our parents died a while ago. Pierre never goes. I don’t think he can stand to see Edmond in pain. It’s too much for him.

  Too busy making money or tending to his whores, thinks Jorgen. He’s seen Pierre go out at night and come back with one of those women on his arm, the squeals and laughter haunting the house. He looks at Natalia’s drab brown skirt, her white starched blouse, the red kerchief tucked in her breast pocket, the gold cross hanging prominently around her slender, pale neck. She is talking again about how well Edmond is doing, how soon he will be joining her for morning mass. How ignorant she is, he thinks, how blind. Such a pure, simple woman, she can’t even see her brother is going to die. It’ll be a shock for her when he goes, but maybe she’ll grow up, and life won’t seem so wonderful and she’ll halt that damn humming.

  She turns and is about to go. Oh yes, she says, delicately tapping her hat on her head. Did you recall your name? Because if you haven’t, I’ve got one for you. Do you want to hear it? She smiles at him demurely.

  They are about the same age, he thinks. She might be slightly younger than his twenty-six years, but she seems like such a young girl, so protected in the swathes of her innocence, abandoning herself to such silly hopes. She’s grinning now, unable to contain herself, intoxicated by her secret.

  Donatien, she says, her voice boasts proudly. And she tells him what it means.

  No, he says, holding his temper. He’s tired of her presence, wishing she would leave. He will give her this, but no more. Nothing more. He doesn’t want her prying or her curiosity honed on him.

  He tells her his name.

  Well, Jorgen, she says, her smile slightly fading. Good, and she pulls a bright yellow scarf from her bag and wraps it around her neck. A name is a good thing to have.

  She turns to go, and he hears her run down the stairs. He holds his breath, waiting for the front door to open and close, then releases a long sigh. The top of his right shoulder aches. The crutches, he thinks. He sits at the desk and stares at the boxes. A fly buzzes around his head and lands on his hand. She let it in, he thinks, when she reopened that window. Batting it away, he rises again and snatches more things from the boxes to sell. Three bottles of good wine from the south of France, a block of cheddar cheese from Holland, a ten-pound bag of walnuts, and two wool scarves because it’s certain to turn bitter cold soon and someone will pay double, maybe triple for such a wrap. Looking at his pile of goods, he feels his heart race.

  He reaches into the bulging bag and pulls out the thin paper. It came from the Japanese box. A painting, but on such feeble paper, as if not really a painting at all, a hint of a painting, a sketch, though it can’t be because of the colors. Cryptic black lines mar the right corner. He pulls out the invoice slip. Only the Japanese bowl is noted, nothing about a painting. He smoothes the paper onto the table and studies it. Two people, a man and a woman, standing under a tree. The man is wearing some kind of strange, long dress, just like the woman. Her black hair is pulled up in a bun with two pieces of white wood holding it together. The man has black hair pulled into a ponytail on top of his head. The woman’s eyes are long thin lines. How can she see? And what is the man doing? Jorgen lifts the painting up toward his face, and his hand begins to tremble. The man is parting the skirts of the woman, and there is the pink white flesh, and the groping hands.

  Another thing to sell, he thinks, quickly slipping the painting between two pieces of cardboard. Some stupid Frenchman is sure to want it. And technically, he isn’t stealing; her brother doesn’t even know it exists. He carries the cardboard into his room and slides it under his cot.

  NATALIA SITS BESIDE HER brother in the hospital. A young man moans in the same cot where Jorgen once lay. This new soldier has a bullet lodged in his side, and the one-room hospital is flooded with a fresh round of wounded soldiers, as if a great storm had washed them in through the dingy doors and strewn them against the walls, in the cots, the hallways, and in any available chair. From the flotsam, a horrible smell of stale bodies and dried blood and pungent clouds of ammonia cleaners. She tells Edmond the Dane is livin
g in the boardinghouse, working for Pierre.

  He fought for France, says Edmond. I guess that’s good enough.

  What do you mean? she asks, smiling at him gently. She leans forward in her chair, trying to think what else she can do to ease his pain.

  Well, what do we know about him? He looks at her with clear green eyes.

  She pulls her cardigan sweater tighter around her front. Whatever do you mean?

  I don’t want to worry you, he says. But you should be more careful. Natalia, are you listening to me?

  He was kind to you, she says.

  Natalia.

  I think you’re being overly cautious, she says, pulling her kerchief a little tighter around her neck, feeling a sudden chill in the room.

  She leans over and brushes his dark hair from his sweaty forehead. Her body momentarily blocks the light shining in from the window onto his outstretched body. Almost instantly, he shivers and tells her to lean back so he can feel the sun’s warmth on the heavy blanket. Without the sun, he is a block of ice.

  I want to die during the night. I can’t stand it sometimes. The cold.

  Don’t talk like that.