With blurry eyes, he stares angrily at the stack of books and puckers his lips in disgust.
She looks toward the entrance of his office, listening for Pierre. We’ll get back before he notices you’re gone.
He can’t lose this job. Not yet. He looks again at the books, then thinks about the sound of a gun firing.
We’ll sneak out. Pierre is too busy with other things.
He reaches behind his chair and fumbles around for his crutches. She grabs them for him. He hooks them under his arms, hands her the pistol, and says he’ll fetch his rifle.
Wait here, she says, and, removing her shoes, walks into the hallway in her stockings. She comes back and says Pierre has gone downstairs or perhaps to the café for lunch.
Hurry, she says. She hands him his coat. He retrieves his rifle from his room, and they slip out the back door.
THE SUNLIGHT SHOCKS HIS eyes; it has been so long since he’s been outside. The warm air strokes his face, and it feels as if he’s been in a deep fog. They walk down the sidewalk to Burty’s, behind the horse market. Soldiers and people throng the streets. They turn right at the first corner. An old woman cranes out the window and yells to a man down below, Come up, but only if you have a pastry or a bottle of wine.
I don’t want to be a servant to the Prussians or to anyone, says Natalia. She is babbling, she knows, but she is excited and thrilled he offered to help her.
I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.
She is walking beside him, her pace slowed to match his. If you don’t think the Prussians are bad—
I’m not saying bad or good. I’m saying don’t believe everything.
But why did you leave your country to fight for France? It must be because you love France and all that she stands for.
He directs his gaze at his black boot, scarred from wear. She glances at him, waiting for him to respond, but he’s tipping his face to the sun and there are the smells in the warm air, the horses, the grass, the bakery, and the fires, always the smoke. The shutters on most shops are nailed shut, signs announcing their closure. They pass by the butcher’s shop and overhear one woman in the long line say the only thing available today is horse meat. She heard they killed the tiger in the zoo. Down on the street corner, a woman sings, Vive le guerre. A carriage goes by carrying more wounded soldiers and Natalia crosses herself.
She bends down, picks a lone, shimmering buttercup, and tucks it behind her ear. She feels almost giddy and he looks so much better, the grip of whatever held him loosening, and he is looking around, engaged in something other than numbers and boxes. Who cares if Pierre finds him gone? If her brother had his way, he’d chain Jorgen to the desk and give him one dull errand after another.
They walk by a group of soldiers in dirty red trousers and filthy blue overcoats. She studies them, the way they hold their guns and wear their hats, pressed down, covering half their foreheads. One of them has a Prussian epaulette at the end of his bayonet. Oh, she says, pointing it out to Jorgen. She is happy to be alive, and she looks over at him and smiles. With his help, she will soon be able to stand up for something she believes in. Her life already feels bigger, more grand.
I can’t thank you enough for doing this.
He nods.
She tells him the other day at the hospital, one of the nurses asked about him. She hoped you were doing better and said for you to come by if you needed anything. She gave me this to give to you. Natalia hands him a business card. A doctor named Whitbread, who is supposed to be very good at making artificial limbs. She tells him he’s from England. He came to Paris to help and his office is across town.
He glances at the card and puts it in his pocket. This Dr. Whitbread, how much do you think he charges?
Natalia tells him what the nurse said.
That’s what the nurse said?
Yes, says Natalia. She’s the one with the light brown hair.
That’s a hell of a lot of money.
Do you remember her?
No.
She felt bad for you because had the doctors treated you earlier, she says they could have saved your leg.
His expression remains blank.
Why did they wait so long to bring you in?
He shrugs.
It seems a pity. A terrible pity.
He stops and turns to her. I don’t need anyone’s pity.
I didn’t mean—
That’s the last thing I want. Pity. Goddamn pity. Everything that’s happened, I deserve.
You deserve? she echoes, her lips pulled inward, frightened.
I deserve, he says again, feeling sorry for himself as he looks down at his empty trouser leg. Anyone who pities me is a goddamn idiot.
Red nudges up her cheeks and her eyes tear. It came out wrong, she says. I didn’t mean it that way. She pulls out a handkerchief and dabs her eyes.
And now look what I’ve done, he thinks. She’s a good-hearted woman, the least you can do is not make her cry. She is quivering now, her shoulders shaking, and tears are about to run down her face. Don’t, Natalia. Please don’t. His ghost leg sears with pain and he feels the blood rush to his face, thinking of his callousness. You let me in on your secret, he says, and now I’ll tell you one.
She looks at him with tear-hung lashes. He tells her he was hit by a Prussian bullet. But the French officers who found him thought he was a spy. They questioned him for hours and hours before transporting him to the hospital.
She flinches and nods, as if both frightened and comprehending.
He watches her expression. It isn’t true, what he just told her, but she stopped crying, and he briefly swells with pride at reassuring her. Her chestnut hair looks lighter, he thinks, almost golden red in the sunlight. Then he recalls the truth of what happened, which is so humiliating, he’d never admit it to anyone.
The truth is he got hungry one night. The others in the camp were asleep, and he wandered alone into the woods, hunting for a rabbit or a squirrel. His empty stomach drove his legs underneath him. Such an idiot to walk so far from the other men, he thinks now. He didn’t know how far he hiked away from camp, driven by how good the rabbit would taste roasted over a small fire, so much better than the horrible mixture of sawdust added to the bread dough or the days with nothing. Surely he’d see a small jackrabbit just around the next turn. As he crossed into a small valley, he stumbled and fell. A shot rang out in the night air. His leg felt as if he stepped into a trap, the jaws of it clamped around his calf, ripping off the lower part of his leg. His fall had fired his gun and the bullet drove through his knee. No one found him for nearly two days.
Are you a spy? she asks, peering up at him.
What do you think?
She touches him lightly on the elbow. No, she says, laughing anxiously. No, of course not.
And she is convinced, for the most part, but why did he hesitate revealing his name? And Edmond’s voice haunts her; he has always watched out for her. She feels a small part of herself receding, pulling back from the man beside her, watching him, though she wants to trust him, wants to trust and believe in the goodness of everyone—it is what she’s been taught by the nuns. But some people fall too far from the goodness, she knows this, too. This man, though he is not Prussian, he has such a gloomy nature, his edges dark and mysterious, his disposition solemn and guarded. She wants to tell him he should only think about the highest, brightest, and most noble of things. He should feel blessed that he is alive.
He points to a park bench and says he needs to rest.
They sit and she watches a group of soldiers practice formations, and alongside, children imitate them, armed with broomsticks and mops. She turns to him. He looks down at his empty pant leg folded against the park bench.
Tell me what happened, she says. These French officers. What did they think you’d done?
He says nothing for a while. I can’t remember all the things they asked. But when they finished, they threw me on a stretcher, dumped me in a cart with a bu
nch of other injured soldiers, and hauled me back to Paris. By then, I’d lost so much blood, I was delirious. He hesitates only a moment, then nods, marveling at his ability to lie.
I’m so sorry, Jorgen.
She reaches for his arm and he slides out of her grasp, walking. She sidles up to him. A horrible idea, she thinks, to ask him to do anything for her. Everything she says and does is wrong; he doesn’t enjoy her company, and look at his long, solemn face.
They arrive at an empty lot. Along the back fence, soldiers have painted targets for shooting practice. Not far away, there is an open-air restaurant with the tricolor flags tied to the trees. Men and women are eating at small tables with white tablecloths. The smell of roasted chicken fills the air. A woman laughs, the shrillness quivers in the air, along with the clink of a wine glass, a fork against a plate. Cannon and gunfire periodically rupture the idyllic scene.
He sets up a target for her, a piece of plywood, and carefully draws a big black circle in the center with a piece of charred wood.
Perhaps this isn’t a good idea, she says, her voice soft.
Why? he asks.
She bites her lower lip.
Let me show you how to insert the cartridge, he says. He opens the top chamber of the rifle, inserts the metal cartridge, and pushes the bolt forward then over to the right. He hands the gun to her. She hesitates.
I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to teach you, he says.
She looks at him, then takes the gun.
He tells her to let it rest on her shoulder. Feel the weight of it.
The gun glues onto her shoulder and it rises and falls with her breathing.
The gun is moving too much. He feels her excitement and remembers when his father first taught him how to shoot when he was a young boy, out in the snowy woods hunting deer, how a fierce current ran through his body, and he could barely keep his hands from shaking; he was so thrilled. His father, usually so disappointed with him, calling him weak spirited, disowning him, You are no son of mine, but not this time, with a rifle in his small hands, his father looked on proudly and claimed him as his own. When the first flash of a deer bolted by, he missed, and he missed again. He had to kill a deer. Had to. The third time he missed, he heard his father swear. When he finally hit one, he didn’t let his father see the tears as he ran over to the deer, placed a hand on the warm animal’s dull fur, and saw its big glassy eyes filled with fear, looking right at him.
He takes the gun and rests it on his shoulder. See?
He hands her the gun. She puts it on her shoulder.
Better, he says.
He tells her to gently place her second finger on the silver cock and her thumb on the trigger. When her body is relaxed, and only then, pull the trigger.
She does as he says, firing the gun, hitting the dead center of the circle.
She looks at him, her eyes wide, her face flushed with awe and fright. She wants to hug him, tell him he is so patient; she’s surprised to discover he’s such a good teacher. The Parisians at the restaurant stand and clap and shout and raise their wine glasses in the air. She turns to the crowd and bows.
She will save Paris! someone yells. Long live our French women.
Well, it won’t be the National Guard.
Everyone laughs.
She turns to him with a big grin.
Good, he says, a hint of a smile.
He has her try it again. And again. Then faster. From the gun by her side, the gun on the ground, in a bag, slung across her shoulder. Clumsy at first, as the hour progresses, she picks up speed, and she has patience, something he never had. And her strength, he underestimated it. He knew women could be unflinching and brimming with resolve, but he thought it was only about women things, about marrying a certain man or purchasing a particular fabric for a new dress. Never about doing a man’s job or fighting in a war.
At the end of the hour, she thrusts the gun toward him.
Your turn.
He shakes his head. My balance is off, he says. His good leg is trembling. He needs to sit down.
I’ll help, she says. I’ll hold on to your arm. She is giddy with her quick advancement, and how much he seemed to take to this endeavor; it is the first time she has seen him care about anything.
Not now.
Come on.
He pushes her hand away. Can’t you see? They chopped off my fucking leg.
WALKING BACK TO PIERRE’s boardinghouse, neither one says anything for a while. Finally, she says, In the hospital, you called out a name in your sleep.
He looks straight ahead.
You said the name Agneta. Who is that?
I don’t know.
Natalia is quiet, waiting for more, but the silence drags on. His leg throbs and now he can’t look at her. He turns to the park instead, to the stumps of trees and the scavengers, who have stretched canvases and sheets over branches, impromptu rickety shelters. A gang of children run by barefoot, wearing ragged, dirty clothes.
Around the corner is the boardinghouse. He is suddenly adept on his crutches, moving as fast as she normally walks, eager to get home.
THE NUMBERS SKITTER AROUND the page. Her name, Natalia said her name. He feels her presence in the stale air of the office; how did she find him here, thousands of miles away; she followed him here, and now her small hand is pressing down, making it difficult to breathe. He rises from his desk and shuffles down the hallway to his bare room, nearly collapsing onto the cot, as if he forgot how to stand.
NATALIA PULLS OPEN THE heavy, wooden door of the old church and steps inside. She stands still, as she usually does, savoring the interlude between the busy street and the quiet of the church. She closes her eyes, leaving behind the pushing and selling, feeling something inside stretch out, like a taut ribbon.
Footsteps echo in the high-ceilinged church, and when she opens her eyes, she breathes in the candles, incense, safety, and silence. And then it happens. Her best self steps out of its shell, and it is shining and luminous; though it’s always there, tucked behind her other self—the one that thinks so many critical thoughts about her brother, her neighbors, the world—here her highest self unfurls and subsumes everything else. It is a perfect moment.
She bows her head and enters the womb of the church. A few people sit singularly on benches, their heads bowed, hands clasped tightly, some desperately, in prayer. There’s a gathering of old men in worn overcoats holding prayer books. People look beautiful in that pose, she thinks. Humble in the face of God.
She walks down the tiled aisle and slips onto a polished wooden bench. An old man tilts his head her way, discreetly, his white hair a puff of cotton. He smiles, his eyes watery and yellow. Kneeling on the oak plank, she bows and prays to God and Christ hanging on the crucifix at the front of the church. She knows she is glowing right now; the old man glances at her again. He must see it, she thinks, the luminosity, her best self, the one united with God.
With the ringing of the gun settling to the bottom of her brain, she calls up those in need of a prayer. What will become of that poor woman on the street corner selling herself for one franc? And the old women shuffling around the park looking for firewood? She prays for them, Our Father and Hail Mary, prays for their souls. For Edmond, who is doing so well, for Jorgen, who is so much more generous than she originally thought—Forgive my earlier stinginess. And after a while those thoughts drift away, and so do her worries about Jorgen and Edmond, her precious brother.
She prays with such concentration and pleads with Mary and Jesus and her patron saint, Saint Natalia, beheaded for openly practicing Christianity, and also her favorite, Saint Joan of Arc; her fear and excitement from this morning augment the fervor of her prayer. I must serve, she prays, I must fight for France. She has waited for a true purpose all her life, and here it is, so she must rise, rise up with her best self and fight.
Please give me a sign, she whispers. A sign that I will be chosen.
The bench creaks, the old man slowly rise
s and walks down the aisle. The light streams in through the stained-glass window, fracturing into red, purple, and yellow. The purple falls on her hands and she almost gasps. Purple, the color for penitence and mourning, she thinks, and also for royalty. A way to cleanse my sins and also to be my highest self. Here, this light, now caressing both her hands. She looks to the front of the church, to Jesus hanging from the cross, and bows her head in gratitude.
As if the world knew what just happened to her, a young infantryman walks to the melodeon organ and begins to play Immaculata Reprisa Suprisa. When she comes back from the war, they will honor her by playing that song. She sees herself standing at the front of the church, the priest telling the audience of her bravery. His voice booms out, She put herself in front of the devil in order to save us all. No, it won’t be like that. It will be Edmond standing beside her in front of the congregation. Edmond, fully recovered, will join her in the war, and they will return together, victorious. The congregation lines up in the aisle and slowly makes it way up toward them. She bows her head and they kiss her cheek or pat her hand. Thank you, they whisper, some of them crying, pushing gifts into her arms, sweetbreads and bottles of wine, pictures of the crucifix, and handwoven cloth. Thank you.
I did it to serve God, she says.
She raises her hands. The congregation quiets. She wants to say something, but she must put this delicately. She has always felt there was something special about herself. For years, I sensed there was something else for me on this earth, something extraordinary, other than the normal duties of a woman, of becoming a wife, of bearing children. She says this, her head slightly tipped in humility, and tells them her role in the war was God’s design and she carried out His will. The priest stands by, his arms crossed in front of his corpulent frame, and Edmond, too, looks on and admires this reception; the choir sings a glorious, uplifting song, the music pours over everyone, and something opens for her at that moment. A sense of walking through to another plane. She has known something exists parallel to the earthly world. She’s read about it, the place beyond the body, and prays she will someday step into it. It is heavenly. There are no needs, no desires; it is a unified state where there is a beauty that could only be called sublime. Sometimes when she prays hard, as she’s doing now, she can feel this other world crackling.
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