Sylvie. So that was what Marie’s daughter was called. “And what about Marie?” Wanda asked urgently.
Patrizia heaved a great sigh. “She has an infection and a high fever. She sees things in her sleep; it seems that she is having hallucinations. The doctor says that the most important thing now is for her to rest.”
“She has childbed fever? That can be fatal, can’t it?” With every word she spoke, Wanda’s heart pounded harder with fear. Her mother had often told her about the women she saw in the New York hospitals’ indigent wards. They gave birth in insanitary conditions and then died of childbed fever soon after they were brought to the hospital.
A shiver ran down Wanda’s spine. “I have to see her, now, just for a little while!”
Patrizia took Wanda’s hand. Her fingers were cool. “Believe me, we are doing everything we can for Marie. But she must not become unnecessarily excited by visitors. The doctor says if she does not have complete rest . . .”
Wanda drew her hand away. She had rarely felt such horror at another person’s touch. If not—then what?
A moment later the countess was on her feet, and her posture clearly conveyed that she considered the conversation over. She didn’t say a word about when Wanda could come again. And she certainly wasn’t going to invite Wanda to live in the palazzo until Marie was better.
What now? Wanda felt as though she were acting in a play in which the director had forgotten to give the actors their script. The whole situation was so absurd that it frightened her. She had come all the way from Germany to visit Marie, and gotten no farther than this ghastly anteroom. And now Marie’s mother-in-law wanted to put her off with vague excuses. She said that Franco was away on urgent business—and then nothing more about her son’s absence.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
To buy herself a little time, Wanda teased a handkerchief from her pocket while she watched Marie’s mother-in-law from under hooded lids. The countess was already standing in the doorway. The way she held her back ramrod straight as she gazed into the middle distance with a forced smile on her lips reminded Wanda of her mother, who always struck that pose when she had to be polite to people she couldn’t stand. It was a mask behind which anything at all might be hiding.
What does the countess have to hide? Wanda wondered as she dabbed at nonexistent drops of sweat with her handkerchief. She tried desperately to order her thoughts a little and not to let this cold-eyed woman intimidate her.
Was something wrong with the baby? The idea was so dreadful that Wanda could hardly think what it might mean. Or was there a greater danger to Marie’s health that the countess had not told her about? If there was, then wasn’t it even more urgent that Wanda be allowed to visit her now?
At that moment she wished for nothing in the world so much as to have Johanna there at her side. Or her mother.
But she was on her own, and Marie needed her. Needed her more than anyone.
At last she rose to her feet and went toward the door, stopping only when she was standing face-to-face with Patrizia. How stern the woman looked! Wanda could well imagine that most people would bow their heads and turn away from the look in Patrizia’s eyes, forget their request, and leave without further ado. But not Wanda Miles! Anyone who had run the gauntlet of the Sonneberg wholesalers had nothing to fear from an Italian countess. Without even the faintest note of hesitation in her voice, she said, “I would like to be taken to Marie this instant. If not, then . . .”
She hoped that the implication was enough of a threat in itself. Since she had not the least idea how she could have finished the sentence.
The hissing of the flame grows louder. Soon it will be the right temperature to blow a glass globe. A large one. A glittering globe, with all the colors of a soap bubble. Like the soap bubbles that Father used to . . .
“Aunt Marie, are you awake?”
Marie groaned. Don’t shake me! The soap bubbles will burst.
“Aunt Marie, can you hear me? I . . . can wait till you’ve had some more rest.”
Pop! Pop! Pop! and they burst, one by one.
“Wanda?” Marie’s arm trembled as she tried to sit up. She blinked in the darkness of the room. “Is that really you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” Wanda answered.
Such a soft voice . . . like an angel’s . . . not like Wanda, always so lively and excited . . .
Marie struggled to concentrate. To see clearly. Was Wanda really standing there by her bed or did she only exist in her head, like all the others? And then—a hand on her hand, soft and warm. It must really be Wanda.
“You . . . came. All this way. How did you know that . . .” All at once Marie didn’t know which question to ask first. She began to cry. How did you get here? Are you well? And how’s Johanna? Her head was so full. A tangle of thoughts from which she could not tease out what was important from what was not.
“I have to tell you something . . .” Marie began softly. “I—”
“Shhh, lie still. We’ll talk later. We have plenty of time . . .” Wanda murmured. She put her arms around Marie and rocked her back and forth like a baby.
Marie never wanted to leave this loving embrace. She was so happy and yet she had to cry. Soon Wanda’s shoulder was wet with tears.
“You see, she’s already becoming overexcited!” Patrizia hissed from over by the door.
“She’s crying because she’s happy!” Wanda answered. Then she let go and gently urged Marie back down onto the pillows. “Your mother-in-law says that you must rest. I’m not allowed to agitate you or she’ll throw me out,” she said and gave Marie a conspiratorial wink.
Patrizia immediately stepped closer. She hadn’t understood what Wanda had said to Marie in German, but she knew that it had been about her.
Wanda, here—this is a gift from God! Dear Lord, thank you! I have to use this time. The dizziness might come back at any moment. All these voices in my head, the . . . Marie blinked away her tears.
“I . . . I’m well. I’m just a little weak still.” She tried to smile. It was good to have her head clear again. She was filled with the hope that everything would be all right. “Have you seen my daughter? Sylvie? Isn’t she beautiful?”
“And she’s so strong! The wet nurse says she’s as big as a boy. No wonder the birth left you feeling tired.”
Make Patrizia leave us alone, Marie pleaded silently. There’s so much I have to tell you. But I can’t when she’s looking at me with those sharp eyes of hers.
“Sylvie de Lucca—what a beautiful name! Wait till you see all the things Johanna bought for the baby!” Wanda laughed, just a shade too merrily. “There are some little dresses in case she turned out to be a girl. And we bought pants for a boy . . .”
Not de Lucca, Steinmann, Marie screamed inside. How was she going to explain all this to Wanda with Patrizia in the room? She shut her eyes. She would rest for a moment, then . . .
Not de Lucca. Not anymore. Sylvie Steinmann, that’s what she’ll be called.
When Marie woke up Wanda was still sitting by her bed. She was holding Sylvie in her arms. The picture was so wonderful that Marie began crying again.
“Doesn’t she look just like a Steinmann?” she whispered through her tears. “She has the same blonde hair that my mother had. And that you had when you were a baby . . .”
“Do you think so?” Wanda asked, smiling. “Franco won’t be very pleased when you tell him that the baby looks more like our family than his . . .” She pointed vaguely over to the door, where Patrizia was standing watch.
Marie laughed and then immediately wished she hadn’t. She suddenly felt so dizzy that she had to grasp the side of the bed. She moaned softly.
Don’t faint. I have to tell Wanda everything; I have to get Sylvie to safety . . .
“Can’t you see that your visit is harming the patient?” Patrizia h
issed. “I am sorry, Signorina Miles, but if you cannot see for yourself that you must go, I shall have to fetch my husband.”
“No! Let Wanda stay. I don’t want to be alone!” Marie cried, gripping Wanda’s hand. “You can’t throw her out! This is my home as well!” she screamed hysterically at the doorway.
Wanda was startled. Looking at Marie, she saw that her aunt’s eyes were wide with fear. She made soothing sounds such as she would use to comfort a frightened child.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay here until you’re quite healthy again. And nobody is going to throw me out,” she said, glancing at Patrizia.
Marie shut her eyes again. Oh, but she was afraid. Afraid that her time would run out.
30
The next few days were the worst in Wanda’s life. Whenever she thought back on that time with Marie, she saw a kaleidoscope of hope, fear, and dreadful despair turning and turning in her mind’s eye.
Once she saw how ill Marie was, Wanda refused to leave the room except to go to the bathroom. She toyed with the idea of sending a telegram to Johanna to tell her about Marie’s poor health, but to do that, she would have to leave the palazzo. So Wanda decided against it. What good would it do Marie if Johanna worried herself sick? It was better not to get in touch with Lauscha until there was good news.
Wanda sat by Marie’s bed day and night. When Marie was asleep, she snatched a little sleep for herself in an armchair that she pulled over to the bedside. But when Marie was feverish and delirious, Wanda forced herself to stay awake. It was frightening to see Marie in such a state. She talked to people who weren’t there and sometimes she cried out, but Wanda couldn’t understand anything other than a couple of names and some scraps of words. It was during these hours by Marie’s bedside that she first understood how many kinds of laughter there were: sometimes Marie giggled like a little girl, sometimes she gave a full-throated laugh of merriment, sometimes she cackled like an old woman who had lost her wits. At such moments, she was in a world where nobody could follow her. It was especially bad when she lay there with a forlorn smile on her face. She looked so lonely then that Wanda felt compelled to hold her in her arms and caress her, never wanting to let her go.
Wanda managed to persuade the countess to bring Sylvie’s cradle into the room. At first Patrizia protested loudly, saying that the baby’s crying would disturb the patient. And the wet nurse’s milk might dry up if she had to sit in a sickroom. And if she refused to come to the palazzo anymore, what would they do then? Of course Wanda didn’t want to risk that, but she nonetheless insisted, hoping that Marie would recover more quickly if Sylvie were nearby.
It turned out that the new arrangement worked for everyone. The wet nurse didn’t mind putting the baby to her breast in the mother’s room, and her milk came just as it had before. Sylvie slept most of the time, and Marie held her when she was feeling strong enough. Those were the best moments, when Wanda could rest and gather her strength, hoping that everything would be all right.
At first Patrizia stood by the door all the time like a watchdog, her eyes never leaving the sickbed. Only when Wanda told her directly that she was not leaving until Marie was well again did Patrizia begin to leave them alone, at least while Marie was asleep or hallucinating. Every time the countess left, Wanda felt she could breathe more freely.
Patrizia’s behavior was extremely odd. At first glance she really seemed to be a worried mother-in-law, full of concern for her granddaughter and the baby’s mother. But Wanda soon got the impression that the countess was trying to control Marie’s every waking moment; whenever her daughter-in-law woke up and wanted to talk to Wanda, Patrizia would come into the room as though she had been listening at the door or had sent the servants to spy on them. She always brought something for Marie—a pitcher of lemonade, or fresh water and washcloths to make the cold compresses, or a clean gown—but she never brought anything for Wanda. It was as though she were trying to force her out to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. Wanda rarely went there, though; she was so worried about Marie that her appetite had quite gone.
More than once she sensed that Marie was urgently trying to tell her something. But the impression vanished as soon as Patrizia came into the room. Then there was simply a look of need in Marie’s eyes. But Wanda could hardly throw Patrizia out of the room, here in her own house! So she had no choice but to wait for their chance to talk unobserved and to save up all the questions that were burning inside her.
Why haven’t you written for months? Did our first parcel with the baby gifts even arrive? Why does your father-in-law look at us the way a hungry snake studies a rabbit every time he comes into the room? And why on earth isn’t your husband here? All your mother-in-law has told me is that he’s in New York. In New York? While you give birth to your first child?
But whenever Wanda even tentatively tried to broach one of these subjects and Marie began to speak, Patrizia stopped her.
“Speaking is too much of an exertion for you, remember what the doctor said!” And to Wanda, “You are irresponsible, asking Marie questions like this when she has a fever! Can’t you see that she’s hallucinating?”
Wanda didn’t think that was true at all. It was easy to tell the difference between those moments when Marie was off in a world of her own and those when she could think clearly. She thought that Patrizia was a dragon guarding the cave where Marie was held prisoner.
She grew to dislike Marie’s mother-in-law more with every passing hour. If the dragon had actually mistreated Marie or neglected her, then Wanda would at least have been able to say why she disliked her so. But there was fresh bed linen every morning; light, nourishing meals were served at regular intervals; the pot of herbal tea at her bedside was always full—Patrizia did everything by the book. She also made sure that the doctor came twice a day. Wanda had to leave the room during these visits. She would have liked to talk to him, but he spoke neither German nor English and she had only a very few words of Italian. But Wanda learned all she needed to know when she saw how grave his face was when he left the room. Her aunt’s life was in danger. Every time Wanda asked Patrizia what the doctor had said, the countess replied that the fever was the greatest risk. Marie had suffered a tear during the birth and had to have stitches. Although they had done all they could to keep the wound clean, it had become infected. The fever showed no signs of abating.
At these moments, standing outside Marie’s room in the hallway, Wanda and Patrizia were united in their fears.
A flame, bright yellow, flickering, right there in front of her eyes. But somehow blurred, as though seen through a window on a foggy night in Lauscha. She goes closer to the flame. Or is the flame coming closer to her? It’s all the same . . . Strange, it’s not as hot as it looks . . . The core of the flame is pale. Marie puckers her lips to blow air into the flame. “You have to blow hard to make the flame sing!” That’s Father’s voice! Marie smiles. She can hear him, but where is he? She’s so happy that for a moment she forgets the flame, forgets to blow. The flame dies. And Papa says, “You see, it’s gone out now. Gone out forever.”
When Marie awoke, her nightgown was drenched with sweat. She had been dreaming, as so often during her illness. She tried to remember. She had to remember, it was important!
Marie drank some tea, but it tasted flat and dull.
She could hear Wanda’s voice from next door. She seemed to be speaking to Sylvie, or perhaps to the wet nurse. Not to Patrizia. She never used such warm tones with her. Marie had to smile. Dear Wanda. Faithful Wanda. Blood really was thicker than water. All of a sudden she remembered.
It hadn’t been one of those dreams where so many different people danced past her eyes that her head spun trying to follow them. No. This time it had been a very simple dream. She had seen her father. And a flame that went out. Not any old flame from a glassworker’s lamp—this was the flame of her life. The insight struck her so hard it knocked the breat
h clean out of her.
Why me? I don’t want to die now!
She pulled the covers over her head so that nobody could hear her whimpering. Tears ran down her cheeks.
There was so much she still wanted to do in her life! Her life was like a mosaic in which the most important pieces were still missing.
Johanna and Ruth . . . will I never see them again? They had always stuck together. Everyone in the village always called them the Steinmann sisters, as though they were one entity . . . and then she left without even once looking back. Forgive me, Johanna, forgive me!
What will happen to my baby if I die? Who will take care of Sylvie? Who will tell her that she can do anything she wants to in this life? That even a woman can make her own way? But that everything has a price. Will her father tell her that?
The thought of leaving Sylvie alone was more than Marie could bear. She tossed and turned like a wounded animal, whimpering softly.
I can’t die . . . I’m too young . . . there’s so much I have to do . . . who will do all that, if not me?
Helplessly, she put her hands together in prayer. She wondered what she ought to say at such a moment.
Neither she nor her sisters had ever been particularly religious. They believed in God, of course, and in Heaven, but the good Lord had never played any great part in their lives.
“Dear God, I implore you, make me healthy again. For Sylvie’s sake.” Marie’s voice was thick with tears and sounded strange in her ears. The whole prayer sounded strange. All the same she went on, “But if You must call me to You, then at least tell me what I can do for my child!”
It had been three days since Wanda arrived. She had just finished quickly washing up after another night spent at Marie’s bedside. The previous evening she had persuaded Patrizia to send Carla to fetch some of her luggage from the hotel, so she finally had some clean things to wear. Perhaps it would have been best to bring all of it, Wanda mused as she turned the handle to go into Marie’s room. But since Patrizia still hadn’t actually invited her to stay, she had decided to make do with the little traveling bag she had packed with those few things she needed for the journey itself.
The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2) Page 38