What would she do? The Barking Lounger chair, the TV, and all that pot and pan nonsense, even if she could sell it, would probably meet her expenses for scarcely a week. She scratched her rash fiercely, at last drawing blood. Then suddenly it occurred to her that if only she could stop scratching and weeping, she might have here not a problem, but an opportunity.
For had not a single, albeit magical, indiscretion provoked the demise of her life with Mr. TV? And was this not what in her secret heart she had always, albeit unconsciously, desired? She hadn’t the courage to straight-out desire it, but now that it had been given to her, it felt oddly correct.
She had to take her life by the horns now, which meant she had to get a job. Perhaps she could work at the Orphans’ Hospital, be an Aide Nurse and talk to the little sick children. No, that would be uncomfortable. That would be sad. That would upset her and make her even more tearful. Her rash would come out all the more. But perhaps she could arrange the pencils and papers or schedule appointments for the doctors. Perhaps she could do some straightening work in the Office of the Administrative Experts.
Mademoiselle Objet got up from the dining room table where she had been sitting while contemplating all this. It was ironic, she thought, as she passed now through the living room, that her future should be set up—that is to say, financed—by Mr. TV’s TV (and Barcalounger chair). Life was certainly strange.
As she walked to the bedroom and dressed to go out and look for a job, she thought wistfully of Monsieur Sorbonne. She thought of his wine and his soup tureen, and his crayfish dinner, his stunning blue jacket and his red silk handkerchief; and she was poignantly sad.
CHAPTER 21
Mademoiselle Objet Is Employed
Mademoiselle Objet had been employed already three weeks at the Orphans’ Hospital (sitting at the Reception Desk, tidying up the pencils, directing—albeit a very minute—stream of visitors to the orphan children’s sick rooms) when, on a particularly rainy Thursday afternoon, she noticed, in one of the long medicinal-smelling corridors, the very interesting woman she had seen some weeks before at the Flower Vendor’s Stand.
Asking the phone girl, her accomplice in the Reception Cubicle, if she might take an early break for tea, she excused herself and started down the hall.
As she tiptoed along, the sights she saw were all quite nearly unbearable to her delicate eyes. Behind the thin plastic curtains (printed with bears and cactus plants and blocks of ABCs) that shrouded each bed lay the small sick orphan children recovering from whooping coughs and tonsillectomies.
In one room, she saw a small tousle-haired boy sitting up alone in his bed. With small, disturbed hands he was fingering the air, then flailing his arms out desperately forward as if reaching for an imaginary mother.
Mademoiselle Objet was so overtaken by this sight that her own hands at once reconstituted their rash. She hated seeing him like that, and started backing out of the door. It was there, on the threshold, that, unexpectedly, she collided with the very interesting woman.
“Pardon me,” said Mademoiselle Objet.
“Excuse me,” said the woman. She paused in the doorway a moment, then passing her hands in sort of a whispering way across Mademoiselle Objet’s left hand, let herself into the room. Then she set a large silver bag on the floor and sat down on the bed beside the boy.
Mademoiselle Objet stood in the hallway watching as the woman took the little boy’s wandering hands into hers and for a moment quietly held them. Then—and this Mademoiselle Objet could scarcely observe through the crack in the long plastic curtains—she removed a few small bottles and jars from the silver satchel on the floor. One of these she carefully opened and then applied its contents to the boy’s meandering hands, while speaking some soft-sounding words. Because of the absorption factor of the curtains, Mademoiselle Objet couldn’t hear, exactly, the words she was saying, but the woman seemed to be singing almost, as she gathered the little boy’s hands into hers. Gradually, his hands stopped flailing and clawing at the air. He looked at the woman and smiled. At that very moment Mademoiselle Objet took pause to look at her watch and noticed, to her astonished amazement, that she had been gone on her tea break for almost an hour.
Returning to the Reception Desk she apologized to the telephone girl, explaining about the unusual woman she had just encountered in the hall.
“That’s Madame Métier,” said the telephone girl. “She always comes here on Thursdays. To amuse the children with her cremes.”
“To amuse the children?”
“Yes,” said the telephone girl with catty abruptness. (She had, after all, endured by herself the almost hour-long tea break.)
To amuse the children? To Mademoiselle Objet it had seemed something more—although she couldn’t tell quite what. But when she left the hospital that night, she was distinctly aware that on her left hand, where the very unusual woman had passed her hands across it, the hateful rash had disappeared.
CHAPTER 22
Mademoiselle Objet Makes a Decision
Although she was working by day, Mademoiselle Objet, at night, was becoming quite sad. She sat in her house, sans Mr. TV, reading her poems book aloud to the empty Barking Lounger chair on the far side of the room, and wondered what, besides work, her life might one day contain.
Pondering this, her reptilian rash reappeared, and, pondering it, an emotion bordering on despair took hold of her. At times, scratching fiercely, she desperately wished for some objects to rearrange; but in her own house, alas, she had already arranged and arranged things to the Nth degree.
Perhaps if she made a big change—moved downtown, for example, took up watercolor painting, or wrote a few poems herself—her outlook would improve. She contemplated various things, and then one night, in a stroke of genius, it occurred to her that she was depressed because she was living with a Barking Lounger chair as her only nighttime companion. What might she think and what might occur if the hideous lounge chair were no longer here?
It was thus that, after charming the maintenance men at the Orphans’ Hospital (she brought them Mr. TV’s last box of TV enchilada dinners from her freezer), she arranged to have them deliver it the Flea Fair, where she would sell it for who knows how much, thus finally putting herself both feet into the future.
CHAPTER 23
Monsieur Sorbonne at the Flea Fair
Monsieur Sorbonne was a man of great luck, and when he arrived at the Flea Fair, he came, almost at once, upon an ancient, but perfectly preserved, View Camera. This, he knew, was a rare and out-of-date item, a camera whose square wooden box and oversized negatives allowed it to capture, in large, the exact existential aspects of something.
It was being sold by a garage mechanic as an antique box. It was something he’d found, he said, in his eccentric art professor uncle’s garage. It had been lying—at time time of his uncle’s death—under a large black shroud, and, although all but obscured by a layer of thick gray dust, it had seemed valuable. Along with a dozen tubes of his artist-uncle’s rolled-up watercolor paints he would sell it for, say, seventeen dollars so he could buy some new gaskets for his truck.
Although Monsieur Sorbonne did know exactly what kind of camera it was (he had read at length on esoteric everythings), he wasn’t sure it contained all its necessary lenses and parts. Hesitating uncharacteristically over the seventeen dollars—he’d spent more than that on yesterday’s lunch—he was about to move on when the garage mechanic produced a small maroon velvet bag containing several large lenses, a few rolls for film, and at its bottom, curiously, a small gold chain with a pale-blue crystal heart suspended from it.
“I’ll throw this in for another fifteen dollars,” the garage mechanic said. He’d meant to throw it in for free, but was suddenly reminded of his long-term longing to buy a new a rear-view mirror for his truck.
Monsieur Sorbonne agreed at once, for, in spite of the camera’s curious antiquity and possible uselessness (he couldn’t be sure if the lenses in the bag were the
lenses for this camera), he had now become enchanted by the pale-blue crystal heart.
He peeled off some bills and handed them to the garage mechanic, who handed him his things: the camera box in its black cloth shroud, the maroon velvet pouch with the two big lenses and the small blue heart, and also, at his insistence, the dozen tubes of rolled-up watercolor paints in a ragged gray Belgian linen bag.
CHAPTER 24
Monsieur Sorbonne Has an Incident at the Flea Market
With the view camera, the maroon velvet pouch, and the Belgian linen bag in hand, Monsieur Sorbonne was making his way past the flying-saucer-shaped concession stand and out toward his car when he was almost run down by a middle-aged couple, Mister and Missus Midd L. Klasz, who were awkwardly carrying, sideways and upside down, a brown authentic vinyl Barking Lounger chair.
As Monsieur Sorbonne tried gamely to avoid them, Mister Klasz, skidding on the irregular parking lot gravel, lunged inadvertently at Monsieur Sorbonne, causing him in turn to hit Missus Klasz in the upper right thigh with the formidable View Camera. She let out a pained dog-like howl, and let go of her hold on the upper section of the Barking Lounger chair, causing it to drop indignantly down, while in the background, a finer, more flute-like scream rose up from the sales booth at which, apparently, the lounge chair had been purchased.
Being momentarily distracted by this sweet but quite distressed cry, Monsieur Sorbonne did, nevertheless, help dust off Missus Klasz, set upright the lounge chair, and offer to assist Mister Klasz with its further removal. Mister Klasz, meanwhile, suggested that Missus Klasz remain behind, go back to the booth where they had just purchased the chair (Number 32, he reminded her—and not too far away), have a Soda Diet Drink and collect herself until they both returned.
Reluctantly, Monsieur Sorbonne gave in to her temporary keeping the new View Camera (“I’ll watch it like a dog,” she said) and beneath the gray non-sun of noonday, assisted Mister Klasz across the parking lot and helped him install the chair in the back of his ranch roving wagon.
When Monsieur Sorbonne and Mister Klasz returned, Missus Klasz, distraught, was anxiously approaching them. Her favorite daytime TV soap story, The Nights of Our Days, was about to begin. She had had two Soda Diet Drinks and was feeling better. Her upper thigh was fine, and she wanted to get home pronto to try out the new Barcalounger chair while watching her TV show.
That wooden box (the camera), that foolish pouch, and that scratchy linen bag, she had left, she said, with the woman at Booth 32. Thanking Monsieur Sorbonne for his efforts (by giving him two coupons for imitation sausage flavored pizza). Mister Klasz took his wife by the arm, and relieved to be finished with this effort, Monsieur Sorbonne headed to Booth 32 to retrieve his View Camera.
CHAPTER 25
Monsieur Sorbonne Retrieves His Camera
As he approached Booth 32, Monsieur Sorbonne was amazed to see there—in the shadows of its awning, in the angular light of its parallelogram front opening, in the spangled gray mist of the no-sun day noon, could it possibly be?—the long falling hair, the inviting sweet lips, and exquisite hands of Mademoiselle Objet.
Shyly, she stepped out from behind the counter on which there now remained nothing—except Monsieur Sorbonne’s View Camera, the maroon velvet pouch, and a scratchy gray linen bag. Gingerly, as if he were an apparition and might disintegrate at any moment, she walked toward him. As she did, he reached his right out hand invitingly toward her, and then with his left encircling her neck, he embraced her and gave her a long and delicious kiss.
In the aftermath, they stood there together transfixed, staring into each other’s glad eyes. Little tears rolled down out of Mademoiselle Objet’s eyes, causing Monsieur Sorbonne to retrieve from his linen pants pocket a white handkerchief with which he wiped them away.
Remembering the blue crystal locket in the maroon velvet pouch, Monsieur Sorbonne now unwound himself from her embrace, walked over to the stall counter, and, slithering his hand past the two large lenses in the pouch, retrieved the little treasure. Then, kissing her once again, he fastened it about her neck.
When they returned to their senses after this little event, Mademoiselle Objet picked up her purse; Monsieur Sorbonne picked up the View Camera, the maroon velvet pouch, and the Belgian linen bag, and arm in arm, swingingly, they walked out through the parking lot, leaving the Flea Fair behind.
CHAPTER 26
Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet Have a Reunion
Two hours later—Mademoiselle Objet had returned to her house and changed her clothes (she put on a seal gray dress with a lace-etched portrait neckline); Monsieur Sorbonne had bought some square fine film for his new camera, returned to the hotel, unearthed his blue blazer and his red silk handkerchief—they were once again poised across the table in the hotel restaurant.
Monsieur Sorbonne had ordered the wine—and various other things. Mademoiselle Objet had ordered a salad, and now, like a lovely lily, was leaning across the table toward him.
Eyes upon eyes, they spoke of many things—their marriages, their respective present conditions, the miracle of the Flea Fair, the magic of their first meeting. Light shined in her eyes, and in the several chambers of his heart, Monsieur Sorbonne could feel a rushing flood of emotion, like the shimmering passage of stars. She was so very lovely. He was such a fortunate man.
In the half-light of the restaurant, the crystal glasses glistening, casting bright shadows, Monsieur Sorbonne reached over to the thick upholstered seat beside him, and retrieving one of the large glass lenses from the maroon velvet pouch, attached it with surreptitious aplomb to the camera box, in order to take her photograph.
While she was spooning red raspberries into her mouth, Monsieur Sorbonne captured her image—the delicate fingers, the small silver spoon, the blue crystal locket in the portrait neckline of her dress. And then afterward, after the coffee and cream, when the last berry was gone, he spirited her, like a treasure, quietly up to his room.
CHAPTER 27
The Next Morning
The next morning the sun was shining. The fine square hand with which, yesterday, Monsieur Sorbonne had managed the camera, was now resting handsomely on the pillow; and Mademoiselle Objet’s hair, that dark avalanche, was falling over her cheek like a curtain.
It was late—how late they couldn’t tell. Mademoiselle Objet was due at work. Monsieur Sorbonne had an appointment in town to renew his Oblong Credit Card, but, alas, in the room, there was no alarm clock.
In order to find out the time, Monsieur Sorbonne got up from the bed and—Mademoiselle Objet could scarcely believe this—turned on the TV!
On the screen—and this too she could scarcely believe—was the woman who, only a few days ago, she had seen with the boy at the Orphans’ Hospital. She was talking in a soft, mellifluous voice about the medicinal properties of plants and of how, if applied in the form of tinctures and cremes, they could promote not only true physical healing but also console the mind.
“What a fine woman,” said Monsieur Sorbonne, retreating again to the lace-edged white sheets where, against the propped-up pillows, he situated himself at Mademoiselle Objet’s side. He had forgotten entirely why, in the first place, he had turned on the TV. Beneath the covers he reached for her hand and held it, as together, transfixed, they watched while in her benedictus voice and with her strange and elegant gestures, mesmerically, Madame Métier talked on.
CHAPTER 28
Mademoiselle Objet Is Late to Work
Mademoiselle Objet was twenty-nine minutes late to work and this resulted in a reprimand (and subsequent threat of disemployment). One reprimand per month was all any employee was allowed, and so she’d betterwatch her step. This was a hospital after all—and besides, there had already been that incident with the tea break just two weeks ago. Make no mistake, her management said, it had all been annotated on her record.
Mademoiselle Objet felt somewhat put out because of all this. It was an unfit aftermath to her happy reunion wit
h Monsieur Sorbonne, whose elegant ways enchanted her, to say nothing of the fact that it crimped her joy at having been given at last an extended miraculous glimpse of this Madame Métier, whose words, via the hotel TV, had utterly intrigued her.
Feeling thus upset, her rash reappeared. Between setting up the pencils and pens she scratched it viciously until it bled. When teatime came, she bolted her administrative cubicle, lifted up by wild hopes and a prayer that this perhaps was the day that this strange Madame Métier would be frequenting the hospital and might give her some assistance.
CHAPTER 29
Monsieur Sorbonne Is Late for His Appointment
Monsieur Sorbonne, in the meantime, had arrived too late for his appointment regarding the Oblong Credit Card. So much so (according to the Credit Guard who had been holding his re-application form for the requisite fifty minutes), that not only had he missed his appointment, he had missed entirely his chance to re-apply.
Fifty minutes was the waiting limit, the Credit Guard announced. Anything important could be done in fifty minutes. Why, even psychoanalysis, engaged in for the rearrangement of a person’s personality, could readily be accomplished in a fifty-minute hour. Besides—and furthermore—anyone who couldn’t arrive within the requisite fifty minutes was obviously artistic, unreliable, scatterbrained, and definitely unworthy of an Oblong Credit Card.
However had he got one in the first place? snapped the Credit Guard. It was unthinkable, he said, (and here he studiously studied Monsieur Sorbonne’s black striped Italian suit and red silk handkerchief) that anyone who wore real silk and wool should be permitted to have credit on this kind of credit card. They absolutely could not be counted upon. Persons who wore polyester, on the other hand, his research showed—now that was another matter entirely. Their owing records were impeccable; they owed and owed and owed.
The Magical World of Madame Métier Page 4