The Magical World of Madame Métier

by Daphne Rose Kingma

  “The news,” said Mademoiselle Objet. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes,” said Madame Métier. “I must.”

  Mademoiselle Objet started to read, “Incarcerated last night on charges of trafficking drugs …” but here tears clogged her throat and she was unable to go on, “I just can’t believe it,” she said, “I just can’t believe that this is really happening.”

  “I know,” said Madame Métier. “It is … quite unbelievable.”

  “And already it’s all over the place. The TeleVisions station has canceled your show. The stores are sending back all your cremes. People are calling, saying they always knew you were a fraud. She was so upset she was shaking, yet instead of careening, as she might have in the past, into a tidal wave of hysteria, she was a living portrait of calm.

  “I know,” said Madame Métier. “People are scared. And when they’re afraid, they blame.”

  “But this is so unfair!” said Mademoiselle Object. “They’re not even letting you tell your side of the story, and already this lie’s all over the place. They’re going to shut down your work and ruin your life! How can you just sit there and not even try to defend yourself?”

  “I have no defense,” said Madame Métier, “except the truth. And right now the truth is not available.” For several minutes she sat in silence, digesting what Mademoiselle Objet had said. Perhaps there was some other meaning to this. She had worked for years. She was heartbroken and weary. What if they did shut down her work? Would it matter? Maybe this was the time to stop making her cremes, to quiet her life and grow old in peace.

  She had just had this thought when across the cell a ribbon of light skated slowly down the opposite wall. Tears crowded her eyes and she thought sadly, with an almost unbearable longing of Monsierur L’Ange—of his fragrance, his touch, of their beautiful mysterious days; she had been given in him a rare and beautiful gift, but now, in his absence, why should she go on with her work? Without his love, what was the point?

  Thinking of him, she thought sadly of all the people—great numbers of them—who went through their lives without even so much as a moment love. And thinking of them, she thought of all the suffering ones who came to her door. The needs of the world for love and healing were vast, heartbreaking and endless; and somehow it had been given to her to address them through her cremes. Sitting there alone in her jail cell she suddenly realized that no matter what was said or written about her, she must go on with her work. The making of cremes was not a choice, not something to do if, or when, or because she was happy and felt inspired—but a responsibility. It was the reason, in fact, why she was alive, why she was still taking up space on the earth. She would be alive so long as she had the strength to make them, and when she no longer did, her life would be complete.

  Perhaps this was what she had come here to see.

  She looked out to the hallway where, patiently, Mademoiselle Objet stood waiting on the other side of the bars. “I know it’s hard to imagine,” she said now, with conviction, “but I know that all this will be resolved. The truth will come out. Because in the end, though not always in the middle or at the beginning, the truth will always prevail.”

  “I believe you,” said Mademoiselle Objet, in her heart not quite believing. “I want to believe you, but today I can’t.

  “I know it’s difficult, “said Madame Métier. “But the things we cannot quite believe, we must. Because only then can a miracle occur.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Weeks Pass

  But two weeks had passed, and a miracle had not occurred. In fact, quite the opposite had happened. Madame Métier’s fingerprints found on the white drugs packet and enlarged ten times were published in the paper, as were scenes of the grieving widow and his children at Morte’s funeral, for which his assistant, successor, and young protégé, Monsieur Presque Morte, had performed the high embalming honors.

  Alone in her jail cell, Madame Métier looked older, worn, but deepened somehow, her face transfused with light. Her hair, it seemed, had turned all at once indelibly white, and Mademoiselle Objet was shocked each time she came to see her, that in spite of how thin she had grown, she remained very still and was always at peace in her cell.

  “There has been,” said Mademoiselle Objet, one day, as she stood in the hallway despairing, “no miracle. And I’m afraid there won’t ever be one.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Madame Métier. “Fear is the antithesis of miracles. Faith is the only condition in which a miracle can occur. I don’t know how, exactly, but I do have faith—I have the absolute, unshakable conviction—that, somehow, miraculously, all this will be resolved.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Monsieur Sorbonne Pays Madame Métier a Visit

  It was when Monsieur Sorbonne finally came to the jail to photograph her—“You really should take her photograph—strangely enough, she’s more beautiful than ever,” Mademoiselle Objet had said to him—that unexpectedly, following in his footsteps, a guard Madame Métier had never seen before unlocked her cell, and without so much as a single word of explanation, lifted her up by the hand, opened the door to her cell, and preceding her down the long hallway, showed her the way out.

  In the main room of the jail, flanked on every side by dozens of photographers, Mademoiselle Objet was waiting as thin, incredulous, and regal, Madame Métier stepped into the room.

  “Do you have a statement for the news?” asked someone.

  “I do,” said Madame Métier. “To forgive is to receive back into your heart those whom in error you have wrongly judged. Forgiveness is a life’s work. It is the highest calling of love.”

  “What kind of a statement is that?” someone shouted. “Don’t give us your botanical gobbledy-gook. What about the drugs?”

  “I have no further statements,” said Madame Métier, and leaning on Monsieur Sorbonne’s arm, together with Mademoiselle Objet, she walked out.

  CHAPTER 8

  Monsieur Sorbonne, Madame Métier, and Mademoiselle Objet Have a Reunion

  “What happened?” asked Madame Métier.

  “A miracle,” said Monsieur Sorbonne.

  The three of them were sitting together in the workroom, which, because of Madame Métier’s long absence and Mademoiselle Objet’s inordinate tidiness, seemed almost sepulchral in its perfectly ordered demeanor. Mademoiselle Objet had made some tea and Monsieur Sorbonne had brought Madame Métier her strewn-with-red-roses white silk dressing gown. She seemed overwhelmed by it almost, as she put it on, so large was it now on her thin frail frame, like a room instead of a dressing gown.

  “We don’t know, exactly,” said Monsieur Sorbonne, but before he could say another word, they were startled by a knock at the door.

  “I can’t take it,” said Mademoiselle Objet. “I just can’t handle one more thing!!” She stood up and looked out the window to see if she could see anything, and as she did, a small passage of light formed around her feet on the floor.

  “It’s all right,” said Madame Métier. “Whoever it is, I know it’s all right. Let them in.”

  CHAPTER 9

  More Is Revealed

  It was the blue-mirrored sunglasses-wearing landlord who now followed Monsieur Sorbonne up the stairs.

  “It was me!” he said, shaking. “It was me! And now I’m terrified.”

  “It was you who what?” asked Madame Métier, standing up from her blue embroidered silk hassock and walking over toward him.

  “It was me who informed the police. And now I’m terrified.” Still shaking, he collapsed on the couch and Madame Métier sat down beside him.

  “First of all,” he said, collecting himself, “I’m so glad to be here. I’ve always wanted to to thank you for saving my little girl’s life. A few years ago, she had a terrible breathing condition. None of the doctors could help, and I was sure she was dying. It was only when Mademoiselle Objet, here, gave me one of your cremes that she started coming back to life.”

  “But the drugs,”
Mademoiselle Objet interrupted. “What about the drugs?”

  “Yes, well, anyway, the drugs,” the landlord continued. “Well, I had a hunch,” he said, taking his sunglasses off and revealing sunny brown eyes, “that something not-good was going on. I’m a carpenter, and over the years I’ve done a lot of work for Morte—wainscoting, cornices, French doors, once in a while a coffin stand for his laying-out rooms. Then one day he asked me to do a ‘special project’—build false bottoms in a lot of children’s coffins—for bodies that weren’t big enough for the standard-sized children’s caskets, he told me. At first, I refused—that’s when my little girl was so sick, and the thought of children dying … But then …”

  And then he told the whole story, how, in the end because he was desperate for money to pay the doctors to help his daughter, he had modified a dozen coffins, how all along he’d smelled something fishy, how, as a consequence, night after night he’d parked and watched outside of Morte’s establishment, how finally he’d seen some men with dark glasses and hearses, loading them two or three at a time with the caskets that he’d just “adjusted,” how he’d called the police with his hunch, how at first they hadn’t believed him, how finally they had, how then they’d sent an officer in disguise who’d bought an “adjusted” coffin with a layer of white drugs packets stashed between the real and false bottoms, how then they’d arrested Presque Morte, apparently the ring leader, and how now, he was afraid they still hadn’t arrested everyone.

  “That’s disgusting, horrible,” said Mademoiselle Objet, when he finished. “Using poor children’s coffins as a cover for drug trafficking!”

  But the carpenter wasn’t listening. “I’m terrified,” he said, “that there are more of them. And that they’ll come and get me.”

  “They won’t,” said Madame Métier, noticing the patch of light that remained, even now on the wall. “It’s over. Finished. I know it. They’ve arrested everyone, but here, in case you’re scared …”

  But, across the room, Mademoiselle Objet had already understood, and, opening a drawer, she took out a white glass jar that she handed to Madame Métier.

  “For panic,” said Madame Métier. “Some tiger lily creme.”

  “Thank you,” said the carpenter, “I owe you my life.”

  “And I owe you my freedom,” said Madame Métier. “We all owe each other much more than we can ever repay.” Then, standing up from the couch, she embraced him briefly before Monsieur Sorbonne showed him out of the workroom.

  CHAPTER 10

  Madame Métier Reflects

  When they had all left, Madame Métier walked alone through the house, reclaiming it, remembering, going back over things, going back to the doctor. “How could she,” as the policeman had asked, ever have “been so stupid?” Yes, how could she have trusted a doctor who had pooh-poohed her cremes, who had made her throw away all her lipsticks, who only believed in disease?

  As she walked in the kitchen to make some tea, a small rectangle of light spilled out in front of her on the floor. “To forgive, to receive back into your heart those you have wrongly judged, is the highest calling of love.” Ah yes, forgive herself, too. That, of all the forgivenesses, was always the most difficult. And now it was time.

  Taking a cup of hibiscus tea, she padded upstairs and opened the door to the bedroom. There, on the far side of the bed where he had always slept was a huge rectangle of brilliant white light. She set her cup on the bedside table, and she lay down in it.

  CHAPTER 11

  Madame Métier Experiences the Truth of Who She Is

  Six months had passed, and although from time to time Mademoiselle Objet kept insisting that it was not her cremes but she herself that had such a salubrious effect, Madame Métier seemed now, more than ever, driven to keep on creating new cremes. It was almost as if she imagined that there was a creme, if only she could perfect it, that could cure every pain in the world. “Stop! Please stop! You’ve got to stop!” Mademoiselle Objet pleaded with her one day. We already have too many cremes. I’m tired of sorting them out and mailing them out and explaining their differences to everyone. I’m willing, but it’s not needed. You already have enough cremes!”

  But Madame Métier could not be convinced. In fact, since she had come home from the jail, she had seemed even more obsessed with her cremes, and yet she was also distressed to think that she might be overly taxing the steadfast Mademoiselle Objet. Trying to sort things out one day, she went to the beach with her notebook. She thought and wrote, but got nowhere. She was a maker of cremes, and if the making of cremes was no longer important, what would she do every day with her life? She wrote the question again and again but came up with nothing. How she wished that Monsieur L’Ange could appear out of nowhere to help her. Finally, when the air had grown chill, she packed up her things and decided, miserably, to go home.

  “There’s a monster child upstairs with his parents, waiting to see you,” said Mademoiselle Objet when she stepped through the front door.

  “What do you mean?” said Madame Métier.

  “A child who will more than not-behave,” said Mademoiselle Objet. “A child with demonic aspects. He spits and attacks and claws at people and screams. He’s totally out of control—and his parents want you to heal him.”

  As she stood on the landing outside the living room, Madame Métier could hear loud sounds from upstairs, crashing and banging and screaming, the likes of which in all her life she had never heard before.

  “Well, I can’t heal him,” she said. “His parents will have to take him away. I do not deal with such contorted aspects of the psyche. I have no cremes for such untoward behaviors.”

  No sooner had she said this than from upstairs in the Seeing Room, she heard another loud crash, as if a piece of furniture had fallen and broken into a million pieces.

  “You’ll have to tell them to leave,” said Madame Métier, setting her things down in the hallway and preparing to go to the kitchen.

  “I can’t,” said Mademoiselle Objet. “I’ve already told them you’ll see him.”

  “Are you out of your mind?!” said Madame Métier. She—and Mademoiselle Objet, too—was shocked when she said this. She had never before said anything quite so rude or hopeless or seemingly mindless and mean to Mademoiselle Objet, nor, could she remember, to anyone else. As she spoke them, the words felt like bricks in her throat, heavy, untoward, and thick—as if they had been excavated from some far, dark, unknown place in herself. “Get them out!” she said, even more loudly in a voice almost not her own, as she circled like a dervish in the hallway. “I’ve already told you, I cannot and I will not see them!”

  Once again, Mademoiselle Objet was shocked. Never before had she seen—or heard—Madame Métier in quite such an emotional tenor. Indeed, it was almost as if she was not herself, as if some other voice or force had taken over her body and was now using it to speak.

  Madame Métier, too, felt more than strange as she said this. More than the words had started to affect her. Inside her body she felt a great upheaving convulsion, as if all its interior contents, its organs and fluids and cartilages and filmy connective tissues were somehow, beyond her control, all rearranging themselves, as if she were leaving her body, or it, with a mind of its own, was leaving her.

  “Get them out!” she said once again. “I can’t help them. This is not the work that I do!”

  But, by then, with Mademoiselle Objet practically hauling her up the stairs, Madame Métier had ascended, almost, to the Seeing Room.

  “It may not have been your work,” said Mademoiselle Objet, in a clear strong voice, “but it is today. They have arrived. They are in need. And you have to help them.” Then in a softer voice she added, “I know you can help. I know you can heal him.”

  Mademoiselle Objet then opened the door to the Seeing Room, which was in a total chaos. Books from the bookcase had fallen all over the floor, the couch, one leg broken, had been turned over. Shreds of cloth, rippings, apparently, from his
parents’ clothes, were strewn across the floor, and pots of cremes had been thrown, leaving splatters with splinters all over the walls. Cowering in the corner were a man and a woman, the parents, apparently, of the monstrous boy; and the boy himself, a boy of about seven years, was running wildly around the room, screaming and tearing at things, making loud howling noises, running up to his parents, slapping and biting and clawing at them.

  Mademoiselle Objet walked into the room, and the minute she did, the boy threw a pot of creme at her. It shattered directly above her head, then fell at her feet on the floor. Then he ran maniacally across the room, and charging at her like a bull, bit her viciously on the arm. She pulled back in pain, and slapped him on the arm, and then, to her horror and amazement, also many times on the face. Finally, dragging Madame Métier behind her, she practically shoved her into the room.

  The minute Madame Métier entered the room, the boy, who had now started howling, banging his head on the wall in a corner on the far side of the room, screaming and stamping his feet, turned suddenly around. Slowly he stopped banging his head; slowly he stopped screaming.

  He looked at Madame Métier, and as if he’d been struck by a bolt from the blue, he paused and stood stock still, staring across the room at her.

  Somewhat relieved, Madame Métier sat down on the blue embroidered hassock which, remarkably, was the only object in the room that had not been practically destroyed. As she did, she felt once again, a most remarkable sensation in every cell of her body, as if its very substances were being rearranged, as if it were no longer her, or hers, but infused with an energy outside of and beyond herself. She felt terrified for a moment, utterly out of control and then—and then in some far distant corner of her heart she heard the words—spoken in her own voice—“And the point is to surrender. To receive what is trying to be given.”