The Blood of Lorraine
Page 9
“Bernard,” Giuseppe tugged at Martin’s sleeve. “She’ll get over it. I know my girl.”
“Of course,” Martin mumbled. She would. He would see to it. Even if she turned her back on him tonight, pretending to be asleep, they’d talk tomorrow. He’d cajole and beg and explain until she understood what a loving fool he was. They had time. A lifetime.
Giuseppe got up and slapped Martin on the back. “Let’s go. We’ve got to get you back to my daughter.”
They descended into the cold, clear night, linking arms in silence as they fought against the wind blowing up from the railroad station, feeling comfort in each other’s presence and in the knowledge that their night would end in something more important than words—pressing together, heart to heart, in a manly embrace.
Yet this was not to be. For when they strolled into the hotel’s lobby, they spotted Rose, trembling, waiting for them by the counter.
“The crisis has begun. Monsieur Stein has gone to fetch the doctor, and Madame is staying with her. You must come, both of you quickly.” For just an instant Martin could not move, his limbs rooted into the wooden planks of the hotel floor, as his mind repeated, over and over, It is too early. And then he flung the door open and ran up the hill.
9
Tuesday–Wednesday, November 20–21
MARTIN GASPED FOR AIR AS he reached the entrance to his building. Leaning against the wall to catch his breath, he frantically fumbled through his coat pockets for his keys. He needn’t have bothered. Like magic, the door slowly crept open.
“Monsieur Martin, Monsieur le juge?” a timid voice called out.
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently pulling the door hard from the hands of the Steins’ younger daughter, Rebecca. She huddled out of the sight of anyone who might be passing in the street, a trembling sentry in thin, red cloth slippers, a wooly blue nightcap, and a white flannel bathrobe, which she grasped with both arms across her waist.
“Maman says everything is going to be fine.” Her dark eyes, wide with concern, and her hair, a crinkly black mass let down for bedtime, accentuated the pallor of her face. The poor girl seemed every bit as frightened as Martin. She loved Clarie, as all of her students did, as anyone in their right mind would.
Martin managed to smile, and to lie. “I’m sure your mother is right. No need to worry. Mme Martin is very strong. And now….” Martin lifted his chin toward the stairs and squeezed his eyes shut. If there is a God in heaven, please let it be true that Clarie is fine, that the baby is fine, that Clarie knows how much I love her.
As soon as the girl realized that she was blocking his path, she scuttled to the side and flattened herself against the pockmarked beige wall. “I’m waiting for the doctor, too,” she called out as he barreled up the rickety, narrow staircase.
Although the door to his apartment was ajar, he waited to slow his breathing before lightly pressing it open with his fingertips. At the very least, he had to appear to be calm, for Clarie’s sake. Alert to every sound, he slipped into the foyer and was startled by an ominous silence. Then from the bedroom, he heard a moan, followed by a whimper—“Where is Bernard? Why isn’t he here yet?”—answered by a murmur of assurance. Before he could suppress it, a selfish joy inflated his chest. She wanted him above all others. She understood how insignificant their quarrel was, how much he loved her. Martin threw off his bowler and overcoat and flung his scarf on the nearest chair. He blew on his hands to warm them and, rubbing them together, hurried to the bedroom.
He found Clarie stretched out on the bed like a medieval saint about to meet her martyrdom, her hair forming a dark halo around her damp, reddened face; eyes closed, mouth clenched, desperate fists clutching at the blue woolen blankets. Their landlady, Mme Stein, was sitting by her side, patting one of Clarie’s arms. Martin made a slight bow with his head. “Madame Stein.” “Monsieur le juge,” she said as she stood up from the chair and swept her hand across her forehead, wiping away a strand of gray hair. She had the same dark eyes and thick, wrinkled hair as her daughter, but not the same fright. She smiled as she repeated, undoubtedly for the hundredth time, “It will be all right.”
Even so, Martin fell to his knees beside the bed and whispered, “Clarie, I’m here. Clarie, my love, I’m here.”
“Come, come, Monsieur Martin, sit here.” Mme Stein offered him her chair. “Sit, I’ll go see that there is water for the doctor. But it is going to be a while yet.”
“Papa?” Clarie opened her eyes as Martin moved to the far side of the bed and sat down. He gently unfolded one of Clarie’s hands from the blanket and kissed it.
“He’ll be here soon.” How could he, at this moment, feel a pang of jealousy for Clarie’s father? Face heated with shame, he kissed her hand again. It was Clarie, the baby, that he should be thinking of.
Clarie smiled weakly. “You’re here.”
No longer able to hold in all the emotions that had carried him to her, the words tumbled out. “Clarie, I love you. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I should have known, you above all women, would not be afraid. You—”
Clarie squeezed his hand with an iron grip and moaned again, in little, pitiful grunts.
Thank God, Mme Stein had not left the room. She leaned over to Clarie and whispered, “Relax, try to let them come. It will be better.”
“Hah,” a last breath came and Clarie’s eyes opened wide. “Gone,” she panted. “Gone for now.”
“And in between,” Mme Stein continued as she wiped Clarie’s brow with a handkerchief, “know that your husband is right here and the doctor is coming soon.”
“Yes,” Clarie nodded, so desperately and submissively that it almost broke Martin’s heart. It was not like his passionate, strong-headed girl to obey, to give in so readily.
“Tell her, keep telling her, how everything is going to be fine,” Mme Stein ordered Martin in the gentlest of voices before leaving the room. He rasped out a thank-you, although what he really wanted to say was “Please don’t leave. Not now. Not yet.”
How long does it take to bring a child into the world? As the night lengthened into the dawn, and the dawn stretched out its fingers, releasing from its bountiful palette only the meager ashen blue of a wintry day, it seemed to take a lifetime. At least to Martin, who stayed by Clarie’s side every moment, and to Giuseppe, who paced and sat and paced again in the tiny living room, pausing only to listen hard for every sound, to suffer with every moan, to pierce his heart with every cry.
But it was not a lifetime.
Not to Dr. Jean-Louis Pinot, whom the loyal Ernest Stein had tracked down at the hospital, delivering a sickly babe into the harsh realities of the city’s charity ward. Because Stein’s account of dire emergency had been so convincing, the good doctor did not even take off his bloody apron before rushing to the Martin apartment, where he was consigned to spend the entire night drowsily offering his assurances, and waiting.
Not to Esther Stein, who had borne two daughters of her own and kept busy, dividing her time between peeking in the bedroom to see if she was needed and keeping Giuseppe company.
Not to the widow Rose Campion, who was well past the age of childbearing and had two overgrown, ungrateful sons to show for it. After an hour’s worry about her young mistress, during which she tossed and turned (insofar as one could toss and turn in the narrowest of beds, covered by the thinnest of blankets, in an ice-cold attic room), the Martins’ day woman blessedly fell into that stupor which is the special gift granted to the overworked and careworn.
Not to Mme and Monsieur le juge Singer, who had been through it all three times before, and had happily given themselves over to a deep sleep after performing the act that would add one more child to their brood.
Not even to Madeleine Froment, who upon imbibing her third spoonful of the opium-based Elixir pour les femmes (tranquility guaranteed) sank into her big goosefeather pillow, quite contentedly dead to the world.
What really mattered, of course, was whether it seemed li
ke a lifetime to Clarie. Martin was sure it did, and that she was suffering a thousand times more than he. After all, he had only one small part to play: as Clarie’s bulwark, her port in the storm, the voice of reason and hope, repeating a few stock, pious phrases over and over again. “Darling, it will be all right.” “Dearest, it will be over soon.” “My brave girl, you are doing so well.” Until at last, the end of the ordeal approached, and he had to implore more than once, “Please, please, darling, try to do as the doctor said.”
Not that Clarie heard him. She seemed to be obeying some ancient inner voice that drove her from one persona to another, beyond reason, sometimes beyond hope. From the piteous, suffering maiden praying for it to be over, to the silent, strong, brave woman; from the concerned mother, bemoaning the fact that her baby was coming too soon, to the fierce resister insisting “I can’t, I can’t do it.” Until at last she could do it, and she lifted herself on her two strong arms, screwed her face into a mask of monumental effort and pain and, with the anguished, triumphant roar of a wounded Amazon, delivered Henri-Joseph Martin into the world.
Martin turned his head away as the blood-and-muck-covered creature slithered out of Clarie’s body. He stared wordlessly as the tiny infant, whose outsized genitals boldly announced his sex, hung from Dr. Pinot’s hands. He did not react to the first cry. He said nothing as the doctor held the baby against his chest, scrutinized him, then handed him to Esther Stein to wash in a basin of warm water. Martin did not reach out when his landlady brought his son, wrapped in a pure white towel, to Clarie. Martin’s brain had gone mute, incapable of giving voice to the turbulent amalgam of repugnance and awe, fear and joy, humility and pride, storming through his entire being.
The women, on the other hand, responded as if everything that was happening lay well within the bounds of normal, human experience. Mme Stein smiled and kissed Clarie’s damp brow. Smoothing away the wet curls of hair from Clarie’s cheeks and forehead, their landlady murmured, “He’s beautiful.” And Clarie, in turn, ran her fingers over the strands of dark hair plastered to the baby’s forehead, and unfolded the towel to examine his hands, and his feet, and the knot on his stomach. “Henri-Joseph Martin,” she whispered, “you are perfect. But,” her head shot up toward the doctor in alarm, “he’s so tiny.”
“He’s not so tiny. My guess is he’s a good three kilos, quite big enough,” Dr. Pinot mumbled as he finally untied his bloody apron and wearily threw it on the floor. “Quite big enough,” he repeated as he came by Clarie’s side to watch as the infant jerked his arms and legs, and opened his empty little red mouth, gearing himself up for another squawking cry.
The unfamiliar, desperately anticipated little voice rang out more loudly than before, and soon they heard a light tapping on the bedroom door.
“That’s your grandfather,” Clarie said, speaking to the creature cradled in the crook of her arm. “Someone,” she said to no one in particular, “tell Papa he can come see his grandson.”
Numbly, Martin stumbled around the bed, stepping over the doctor’s apron, and invited Giuseppe Falchetti in. Even the old man knew what to say.
“Oh, my sweet, brave girl, you did it. And,” the new grandfather said as he admired his wriggling grandson, “he’s beautiful just like you.”
Martin leaned in closer. He wasn’t sure who this big-nosed pink creature looked like or if he was beautiful or perfect. But it began to dawn upon him in a glow of joyful, radiant light: he had a son. This frail little thing was Henri-Joseph Martin. Suddenly, Martin laughed and bit his lip and laughed again. Finally, tears running down his cheeks, he kissed his wife and spoke: “Yes, if we have any luck at all, he will grow up to look exactly like you.”
Rose arrived early the next day to take over the bedside watch from Martin. She clapped her hands with joy and relief when she heard the news and promised that she would make sure that Clarie got some rest. They didn’t have to worry about Giuseppe. After building a fire, he had fallen into the nearest chair, where he still lay, head back, mouth agape, filling the living room with his rhythmic, resonant snores. Before he ventured out into the world, Martin covered his father-in-law with a coat and tiptoed into the bedroom for one last look at his beloved little family. Martin planned only to be gone long enough to send a telegram to his mother and to fulfill an important mission at the courthouse.
Amazingly, he was not at all weary. His limbs moved lightly and smoothly through the Place Stanislas, which had never seemed more beautiful despite the grayness of the day. He delighted in the smell of coffee emanating from the cafés. He loved the gold-topped gates, the cobblestones, the vendors, the passers-by. He loved everyone! I am a father! Clarie is well! He had a son. He felt like a king.
Didn’t kings hold power over life and death? Wasn’t a good king merciful, especially on the day when he was blessed with an heir? Today, Martin was that benign and merciful king. And for better or worse, he was about to pardon and release the grieving father and Jewhater Pierre Thomas.
10
Sunday, November 25
CLARIE KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG. But she could not get anyone to listen. Sunday morning, and they were still insisting that what she needed was rest.
Clarie squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together in an attempt not to start weeping again. She hated lying in her bed, in this perpetually darkened room, helpless, while the lot of them huddled in the living room and talked in hushed tones. If she didn’t act so worried, maybe they would stop treating her like an invalid.
Yet how could she help herself? Little Henri-Joseph was not getting enough to eat, she was sure of it. She felt, and she did not know how she knew this, that the baby was not sucking hard enough, even though her breasts were hard and full and sore. When he did manage to get any of her milk, so much of it gurgled out of his sweet little mouth. And yet all they did, the whole pack of them—Bernard, Papa, Madeleine, Bernard’s mother—was to tell her that everything was, really, all right. Frustrated, Clarie beat the covers with her fists. Confinement, that’s what they called it, for good reason. Left alone, in a room, where every fetid smell, every tiny cry and gasp reminded her that she had never seen her little son smile or tug with voracious joy at her breast.
She pushed herself up on her side and looked down into the crib beside her bed. The baby was so rosy, like a ripe peach, as he lay there sleeping. She watched him breathe, steadily in and out. Except for one errant tiny arm that he had somehow wriggled free, he was covered by a blanket almost up to his neck. His head was protected by the blue woolen cap she had so lovingly knit for him. She reached over and maneuvered his arm, and his surprisingly warm little hand, under the soft woolen blanket. Then she sank back into the bank of pillows her father had fluffed up for her moments before. Oh, how she wanted to believe them. Babies cry, mothers worry. That’s what they kept saying. Along with the eternally irritating “Try to get some rest, dear.”
But she couldn’t. If there was something wrong, it had to be her fault. She and the other teachers, and certainly everyone at Sèvres, scoffed at the books doctors wrote about women’s “nature.” But what if those doctors were right? What if ambition, intellect, and study sapped you of your womanly strength? What if, with all her learning, Clarie had lost some innate knowledge of the most important thing of all, how to be a mother? What if she was starving her baby? She had to do something. He began to cry again.
“Bernard!”
“Yes, dear. I heard him.” The opened door brought light into the room and the sound of tinkling forks and spoons. They were eating breakfast. Bernard hurried around the bed and reached into the crib to pick up his son. She could not believe that her husband still had that silly smile on his face. She’d have thought the constant presence of his mother and Madeleine would have done him in by now, to say nothing of the sleepless nights he had spent walking the baby.
“I don’t think he’s hungry. His lips aren’t moving. You can still rest. I’ll carry him into the living room.”
“Yes, dear.” His smile grew broader, as if to say “Anything for the tired, suffering mother of my child.”
Clarie’s fingers kneaded the covers in pure, hot anger. Yes, she was tired, but she was not mad nor suffering nor unreasonable. “You promised. The doctor.”
Bernard swayed back and forth, trying to coax the baby into another sleep. “I promise, I’ll get him. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning And I promise to ask him about hiring a wet nurse, even though my mother says—”
“What does your mother know!” Clarie didn’t even care if her mother-in-law heard her this time. What does she know. Or Madeleine, or Papa, or you! What did they know? She began weeping again.
Bernard crooked the baby in one arm and sat down at the edge of the bed. “Tomorrow is Monday. I’m sure we could not get anyone before then. If that’s the way you feel, then we must do it, I know we must. I know, my darling. Please don’t worry so.” He kissed her forehead as if she were a child, in the same way she saw him kissing Henri-Joseph’s forever furrowed little brow. “First thing,” he repeated. “First thing.”
Henri-Joseph’s cries began to subside. He was falling asleep again. Maybe that was good, Clarie told herself. After all, what did she know?