Isadora

by Amelia Gray

  “There is no more heartbreaking loss than the loss of a child,” Max said, adding: “we came as soon as we heard.”

  It occurred to Paris that every one of his guests, on the walk up to the flat, must have worked out the first thing they would say when they arrived, but nobody had thought beyond that. Perhaps they assumed a litany would be presented in return, the details and minor gossip they craved laid out for their enjoyment. Paris resented this lack of forethought; he himself suffered the type of mind that was more likely to pursue in advance every avenue of conversation to its inevitable dead ends, its detours around the weather, scenic routes past politics. But he tried to be patient with Elizabeth and Max; they were family, or close enough.

  “Your love for them remains as enduring as our love for you,” he said grandly. “Come now, join us.” He sent the both of them into the main room and went back to work.

  A little planning would avoid a larger inconvenience later on. He resolved to store the children’s things locally until he decided what he would do with them; perhaps an auction for orphans, or a sale. And then there was the problem of where to send Isadora. She couldn’t stay in the city, that much was clear; the scrutiny would be too much for anyone. Perhaps he could arrange to have the sisters sent away after the service. An island on the Mediterranean would be ideal, somewhere restorative and pleasantly Greek. Elizabeth could plan a historical tour.

  They would do well on Corfu. He would check the hotels for availability. The women would take in the sunshine and the good sea air. Perhaps their brothers could accompany them. Gus was arriving shortly from London, having canceled his tour, and would appreciate the chance to extend his travel without the arduous work of presenting any ideas of his own. Raymond would likely return after the funeral to Albania with his young wife, where he had convinced himself he was of some use to the refugees. Hopefully he would arrive in time for the service at least. The siblings were something Paris could arrange around Isadora like a defensive line ringing a city under siege. It was settled: he would send Gus and the sisters to Greece while he closed the house.

  He turned his mind to the rest of the week. There were notices to write, and statements to the press. They needed to formally dismiss the inquest against the driver before the attention on it got out of hand. He had to source the proper clothing for the service, likely for everyone. Isadora could wear the dress she had worn to his mother’s funeral, and they could find something to fit Elizabeth for both the service and her upcoming trip to Greece, as her traveling clothes were stained and her slight valise suggested that she had forgotten to bring a change. The children would wear white. Patrick could wear his christening gown if it still fit—they had both sprouted up in the past month and Patrick had gained at least half his weight as his hems had all lately seemed too short, even after the woman let them out. Paris suffered, imagining his boy’s baby-fat arms squeezed painfully into the white sleeves of the gown, though it would only be painful to witness. None of it would hurt the boy, of course. Nothing at all would hurt him ever again.

  19 April

  Teatro della Pergola

  Ted &c &c DA LEGGERE PRIMA

  Ted—

  I’m having a little trouble imagining anything outside of this bath, which at the moment is taking on the clammy temperature of human skin. Happily there’s enough of a sill to write. A religious woman recently advised me to picture God as a kindly spirit cradling me in His palm but I could only think of the old grocer down the street who insists on sweating every piece of fruit in his dirty hand. Here in the bath my sense is distant and weightless, like a girl on a Ferris wheel who climbed out at the highest point, clutching a beam to gaze wistfully at earth and sky, unable to choose one or the other and waiting for the wind to make the decision. I do believe I have lost my grip.

  Before they haul me out of this water, pack me into a black drape, and roll me into some airless church, I wanted to send you a little theatrical staging. (No mood for dance at present.) Still waiting for your response on the previous, though perhaps you’re too obedient. I would like your thoughts on the following as well.

  Consider HECUBA, daughter of the king, mother of Troy, finds her children murdered after no fault of her own, as far as I can recall:

  ACT ONE. Hecuba paces her chambers fore and aft, her sense a mounting dread. The floor’s rut suggests she’s long gone fore and aft like this, fore to choose a glass from a tray, something to shine on her gown, and aft, turning the fruit over in her hand—a dressing gown, something linen—before placing it on a sill, and fore, holding herself close, arms wrapped round her trunk, an apple tree lonely for her fallen fruit, and aft, watching the door as we all have once or twice but held, fore to her trodding path, her mind’s line with the wooden slats, and aft her trinkets are fore strange despite their standard position sapped of the aft she saw in them before, when the man enters with the body of her son, drained of blood and drowned, his body which she sees first as her own but then, her son, her boy, she falls over him screaming, every sense wrenched by force, sorrow stuffed through lungs and hauled from her mouth, she barely takes a breath before they bring her girl, her sweetest only girl-child, run through with a spear, and between boy and girl a pool of traitorous bloody water seeps into the path her feet have carved. We live to fill the rut we’ve made. More screaming at this point, end of ACT ONE.

  ACT TWO, her home has burned to smoldering ruin, drifting ash. She wanders the scene, tracing her son’s name into the char of the frame and her daughter’s into the hearth. But where did they go? Coming to her knees, she tries to bury herself, slowing as she sees the futility and turning over onto her back.

  The audience shifts in their seats. Hecuba rolls onto one side and falls asleep. The men and women of the audience murmur and watch her even breathing. They menace the evening’s program in their hands. A man calls out from the third or fourth row, a startling sound. Someone groans—a woman, disturbed at her proximity to the scene. She fears the theater’s influence on her own family, her small children, for what young mother isn’t wary of witchcraft?

  The groaning spreads across the group, rising in tone and volume until the crowd as one makes an oceanic vocalization, a crashing cry, gripping the arms of their seats and swaying to stand. They rush the stage and pull the actress into the gallery. As they take her into the darkness, it’s impossible to tell from her expression whether she means to fight them off or not.

  Elizabeth holds court in the flat on Rue Chauveau, an unfortunate view of the river visible from most windows

  Isadora brought another letter out from the bathroom, seeming unaware of her own nakedness and trailing wet footprints that burst their bounds and sank immediately into the dry wood. It appeared she was already drunk, though the guests hadn’t yet finished their morning coffee.

  “Go back in,” Elizabeth said, shaking the water off the letter her sister handed to her. It was addressed to Ted like the other three. No storm could keep her from that snobbish son of an actress—who as of late had gone a bit husky, if press photos were to be believed. He had never been kind to Elizabeth and had once remarked in front of everyone that he suspected she exaggerated her limp to appear more interesting. But no matter, he was a glorified set designer who had an idea that he understood theater because his mother had forced him as a boy to busy himself sidestage.

  Isadora obeyed the order and returned to the bathroom, walking as slow as a queen, and they all saw the petulant shake of her naked rump as it rounded the corner. Elizabeth was annoyed to see Max making a point to look away. He obviously didn’t know any better, having met Isadora only a few times in person, but acknowledging her scenes only served to extend them further.

  Paris would be away at Père-Lachaise all morning, leaving Elizabeth to manage the rest. She wished it had been the other way around; she used to love walking through the old cemetery, a beautiful wild garden lined with the apartments and marble bins of the dead. She liked to take an apple with her, fantas
izing that she was an enchanted princess with the power to revive the suitor of her choice by spitting a single black seed onto his monument.

  It would be different now that the children were there, she thought, and realized with shame how flip she had been, playing fairy games with the thousands interred. This was punishment for her easy attitude. But it was better, really, to feel it now; otherwise she would have mentioned her stupid game at a party, and the gentleman she was talking with would turn and walk away and later she would learn that the man’s dear father was under a slab on the Chemin du Bassin. Shamed, she would never have a chance to explain herself, and never would learn if it was grief he was feeling, or simply the knowledge that she would never, ever choose someone’s old dead kin over Oscar Wilde.

  Elizabeth turned her thoughts to the conversation at hand. It was her responsibility to host, as Isadora had spent most of the afternoon in the bath, but the formality of the job bothered her. She felt like an arbiter reporting for duty, a docent tasked with clarifying biographical detail and ensuring nobody ran off with the silver. The visitors—all strangers to her—had been talking idly of the children for hours, pausing for long stretches of silence and starting up again. They spoke with tender familiarity despite the fact that none of them had ever actually met Deirdre or Patrick, children being generally not invited to the performances and parties. Max told a story of having once witnessed the children at a reception, which included a heavily embellished conversation he claimed to have had with Deirdre as an infant.

  Of course, Elizabeth didn’t have much more experience. The only time she met Deirdre, the girl was more of a sentient bean than a human child, and she had never met Patrick at all. Still, blood being stronger than knowledge, Elizabeth was declared bereaved-adjacent and given a wide conversational berth. She half-listened in case talk turned to dance or to Germany, or general thoughts on the quality of sunlight in Père-Lachaise. The whole morning had put her in a bad mood. These strangers had arrived with breakfast and stayed through the morning. It was too late to put out a guestbook now; they would hate her for her thoughtlessness. She desperately wanted them to talk of something other than the children, the accident, which she was doing her very best not to think about. But she could never change the subject and risk showing her callous core to her guests. Perhaps Isadora would come out again and do something truly unbalanced, harm one of the guests or herself, and they could enjoy a thick hour of speculation about her sanity. Elizabeth was hoping for a scene. It would be something to do.

  A busy café across from Père-Lachaise Cemetery, spiced tea highly recommended

  The burial man asked to discuss details over breakfast, which put Paris off right away. How could a man in his field not have the good sense to meet with the bereaved in private? But Paris determined to soldier on, not having any other choice and anyway wanting to keep an open mind. Père-Lachaise was the best cemetery in town, as far as he knew or cared. Surely this man Étienne was aware of the subtleties of his own industry.

  He watched as Étienne tipped the counter girl a silver franc and squeezed through the dining crowd to claim one of the delicate chairs wedged in the corner. He was a large man, made larger by the confined space. Pinned there in the corner as he was, it seemed as if he were preparing himself for the crypt.

  “We all of us express our sincere condolence,” Étienne said, shifting his body to lean the bulk of it against the back of the chair beside him. The man occupying the other chair frowned and leaned forward to make room. “To know the love of a child and then to lose it is an unimaginable tragedy.”

  “Thank you,” Paris said, looking around. “I wasn’t expecting this café to be quite so bustling.”

  Étienne lifted the croissant to his face and smelled it before taking a bite. “There is no comfort in the world at such a loss and no comfort in others,” he said. “You can only look to a God, who you find to be ever distant, and turning away.” He took a sip of his hot cocoa, which had been served in a wide-mouthed teacup.

  It was early still. Their fellow patrons were a mix of men who seemed to be on their way to work and men without a clear destination, all dressed for the office but idling over the paper or chatting among themselves. It was impossible to distinguish any of them by rank, and they each seemed uniformly satisfied with the morning.

  “Of course we will spare no expense,” Étienne said, fingering the filigree of the other chair. “Not in the service, the viewing, or the processional. The very best for all. Along those lines, you might consider again the beauty of the sépulcre familial? The family crypt, in Père-Lachaise, has no equal. Only there will you know an earthly monument to mirror the splendor your children have found in Heaven.”

  Paris found himself imagining Deirdre and Patrick playing in a heaven set up like a cemetery, hiding behind headstones and tall trees.

  Étienne wrote a figure on a bar napkin, pushed it toward him, and turned to look out the window, where a pair of women rushed by, bundled against the morning. “Unimaginable,” he said.

  Paris could appreciate a salesman. His father had considered himself an inventor first and would have papered the parlor walls with blueprints had his wife allowed, but he was a salesman at heart. Another man botching a patent application was the only reason Isaac Singer arrived first to market, the technicality saving him from a life spent peddling his nine-hundred-stitch-a-minute marvels from the back of a scrapyard truck. He might have been happier, but he wouldn’t have been nearly as rich. Isaac well earned his own marble mausoleum, which he commissioned long before his death so that he could personally express his displeasure at the work. This skepticism was the most useful trait father passed on to son, so while Paris could appreciate a salesman, he would not suffer a fool.

  “We have decided to pursue your crematory service,” Paris said, folding the napkin as if he had spat a piece of gristle into it.

  “Your wife, then,” Étienne said, pressing two fingertips to his broad lips, “she is not a Catholic?”

  “My wife,” he said. From his breast pocket he drew out the cheque that would secure the service. “Miss Duncan is the mother of my youngest child. She is the singular mind behind an artistic form that aims to usher in a new kind of movement. She is a great many things, but she is not my wife. You might spend your days among relatively silent companions, but I’m certain you know better than that.”

  The other man coughed so heartily into his cup that the cocoa splashed back onto his face. Watching him clean himself, Paris worried for a moment that the man was innocent. But no Frenchman would lay down a silver franc without motive, and the counter girl looked guilty enough for the both of them.

  Étienne picked up the cheque and folded it crisply in the middle, marking the seam with his thumbnail. “Of course,” he said, with the nonchalant attitude of someone who had been given a trivial piece of information, the cost of oranges or similar. “Miss Duncan was a vision at the Châtelet.”

  Paris thought back to the performance to which he was referring. Sitting in the Théâtre du Châtelet was rather like being held at the center of a beating gold-gilt filigree heart. The gems on the ladies’ gowns spangled the room but Isadora was the brightest of all without a single bead or ornament, able to consume and process the electric light before sending it in waves across the assembled crowd. Étienne may very well have been in attendance, though tickets were expensive enough that he would have to be skimming something from the cost of every burial. Paris watched him unfold and refold the cheque before tucking it into his breast pocket. It was good to know with whom he was dealing.

  The social mourning continues at the flat on Rue Chauveau, hazy with cigarette smoke

  Gus arrived at last, beating the afternoon’s light rain off his coat by the door and ducking down for a kiss from Elizabeth. Word of the accident had arrived in London before his first matinee, and he found himself stifled, gasping through his longer monologues as if there wasn’t enough air onstage. In hindsight it lent some
legitimacy to the character of Narcissus, the thought of himself so delicate in his own mind that even a moment of silent contemplation by the pasteboard stream took his breath away. And though the trip to Paris was an incredible expense, he undertook it immediately, reasoning that he had been meaning to go anyway and that Margherita, heavily pregnant, must have been craving some time alone, for when he told her he was going, she went to her room and locked the door.

  Elizabeth took his coat, a very nice camel hair he had bought the moment he arrived in France with the last of his up-front money. He was pleased to see his sister appreciate its quality. “She’s in the bath,” she said. “Come say hello to everyone.”

  He looked over her shoulder to the crowd in the sitting room, which looked like a strange spiritual meeting: the ladies in black, the men holding their hats on their laps. None of them seemed to be speaking, though when he looked closer, he saw one of the women directing something toward her folded hands. “Who are they?” Gus asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “If you introduce yourself, they might tell us.”

  Elizabeth was such a nervous creature. It had been years since he’d last seen her, on tour through Germany—Margherita was only his costar at the time—and though Gus felt impossibly older, he found his sister very much the same, peering around the corner as if anticipating an attack.

  Someone brought a plate of smoked salmon in from the kitchen, and the guests leaned forward to pick at it.

  “Buzzards,” Gus muttered. “You know, if you didn’t want to ask their names, you could have put out a guestbook.”

  She winced. “I think some of them are promoters.”

  This immediately improved his mood. “Maybe they will be interested in bringing my show to town.”

  “Not every moment bears an opportunity, Gus.”