by Amelia Gray
“You are troubling everyone,” he said at last.
She turned slightly, pressing her leg against his from hip to knee. He saw that she was holding a sterling silver nail file, the kind ladies kept on their dressing tables. She turned it over in her hand. Max decided she was either about to murder him or invite him to her room. Or she might do both, asking him in for a drink and making her deadly intentions known only once he had settled himself on her bed. The interaction’s dark potential troubled him, but Max reasoned that he could be flexible in his response.
He needed only to turn slightly in order to take her in his arms. She was waiting for him to act on his impulse and would thank him heartily for it.
“The meek,” she said, “shall inherit precisely nothing.”
“What’s that?” He wasn’t meek at all; he was strong and certain and had come to comfort her as a man comforts a woman. And here she was, as naked as the day and trembling. Max stared straight ahead to keep from seeing her. Perhaps he was the one trembling, but still it charged the moment.
He considered the angles. There was the fact of the nail file, which she was pressing at indeed a rather sharp angle onto a vein at her wrist. It occurred to him that she might stab him in the throat.
There were ways he could use such an attack: gesturing to the file sticking out of his neck, he could make the assertion that the girls needed to build short and stocky muscle that would make them more likely to defend against such crimes.
It was time to act. He would take Isadora into his arms and pledge his life to her. She would yield to his touch, and they would kiss, tasting the tears that flowed freely from them both.
It was time, it was past time. She had gone.
He watched her walk away, her dress forgotten on the floor. Her bedroom door echoed when it closed, and he heard it lock.
She had left the silver file on the bench. Max regarded it warily for a moment before slipping it into his pocket, looking around to see if anyone would catch him. He felt foolish taking it. He hadn’t believed in magic since he was a child.
20 January 1914
Teatro della Pergola, Firenze
Ted Craig, Direttore
Meglio soli che mal accompagnati
Teddy,
Consider the tale of Iphigenia, murdered by her father’s hand:
Because the fawn was cut in the wrong glade, the idiot boy upending the map until peaks toppled into valleys and muddied all the dale—because Artemis, picking her teeth with the point of a silver dart, espied this folly and truly was annoyed—because she stilled the winds through the strait, slouching sails upon the rig—because the men on those ships were glad and ready to die—because for Troy, the Argans needed men and ships and wind and the favor of the gods—because of all this, the firstborn girl would have to go.
Curtain rise on Agamemnon promising his girl another show of swords and oaths and a hearty meal after in exchange for her attendance at the sacrifice. Tricked by his love and attention, Iphigenia goes along with it, wearing a coat of feathers lashed with fine golden thread, one of her very finest garments, because she has been promised a good seat at the show, One of the best! he says, gazing off strangely at nothing.
They hold hands along the path, walking as they did when she was a girl. He feels the fault in the deal he has struck with the gods, trading the life of his child for a bit of wind. Surely there is a lesson to be learned, the weight of war or fleeting life. He doesn’t see reason quite yet. He thinks of his men sweltering in the bay and how his choice will ease more pain than it brings.
The usual blank-eyed women crowd behind, their children in rags. Every night they dream the same terrible dream: a wall of death bearing down, the blood of their babies cutting paths in the dirt.
The girl picks her way among them to find the seat her father gives her, in the center of the stone broad enough to lay her head. She settles into dread, knowing what it means if you look about for a sacrifice and cannot find the fawn.
Let’s make it quick from here: draw the chorus forward like a wave and back to show the girl in her father’s arms, throat clean slit, head turned from the blood that soaks her feather coat.
The chorus stands in silence, waiting. Is the miracle supposed to arrive straightaway? The wind could pick up a little at least.
Agamemnon watches a single feather ease out and fall like an arrow, marking with blood the spot where he traded his love for love of country, where he cut open his heart and found it as empty as the eyes of dying men, as empty as their sails.
In the aeroplane hangar at Oldway, Paris prepares to break a few hearts
The local men arrived even earlier than usual, coming up the road before sunrise. They stood around like grandmothers, stepping forward now and again to stroke Cigare’s hull. They tried to ignore the Swiss instructor, who wouldn’t even look at them as he made the last operational points to his student.
Someone passed around a box of cigars, and each man took one but it felt far from a celebration. Paris considered giving a speech about the glory of the modern age but decided against it and strapped himself in without fanfare.
As they rolled him into position, Paris had a chance to wonder at the purpose of humility. Was the goal to eliminate pride from one’s life entirely, or to simply remove its more boastful displays? Perhaps the goal varied based on one’s spiritual belief. The Greek gods seemed to really have it out for pride and vanity both, but their mortals rarely had an internal life to scrutinize; as a result, there was no way to know if the error was in the display of these flaws or their simple existence.
The engine started without incident, and soon enough he had Cigare rattling across the field toward the line of oak trees his father planted fifty years before. The unplowed field was rougher than he thought, and the tires jammed into ruts and gopher pots, splintering off pieces of well-loved wood. Just as he had begun to fear he was too weighed down, the whole thing lifted with a miraculous shudder and Paris was airborne, flying against sense and reason. It was a wild ride, the craft shaking so heartily that he was sure the whole thing would disassemble in midair. But the bolts held, and he shouted with joy, gloriously aloft in the bracing wind. He watched his father’s tree line turn puny, a line of noble matchsticks he soared over without another glance. His property was a lovely green postage stamp, beyond which lay Paignton, the bay and Channel beyond. He felt like a ghost or a god, soaring to greet the sky.
The local men watched in hard silence below. They grimaced every time the plane pitched too far, as if they were standing on a wire that shocked them in unison. Half of them removed their hats. One of the younger men broke down weeping and had to be helped inside and given a glass of gin. The others remained stoic, smoking their cigars and watching Paris circle back.
He landed harder than he had intended and heard a crunching sound that came from either his neck or the engine block. The men ran after the plane as it bounced across the field, trying to track the path of gleaming bits that flew off into the grass. At last Cigare came to a stop against a low bank and sank deep into the mud, and extracting it would require the rest of the afternoon.
Paris eased himself from the cockpit, relieved to find his neck sore but not broken. A few of the men clambered up to open the engine hatch, but he called them off. He wanted a few moments of victory to himself, and he would enjoy it, even if someone had drunk all the gin.
Despite low winter clouds, the future looked bright. He would chart the Cigare north to cross the Channel, following the rivers and roads he knew, coming into the field at Issy-les-Moulineaux. From there, he would find his way to Bellevue and to Isadora, and they could have a revival of their old selves, taking to heart the fresh feeling of a new year. It would be a year of invention, of progress and healing. She was back to work at last, and would be glad to see him. Perhaps he could even take her up in the plane. She was a brave woman, an independent spirit, and he missed her by his side.
He thanked the men for their ser
vice which, he added, was no longer needed. They left, casting back sullen glares, but he didn’t mind a bit. He would have his grand return into France, where he and Isadora would finally sit and talk like the sweethearts they were, a man and woman who had fallen in love and created a child in the course of desire. It would absolutely be that simple.
The ice melts enough for Elizabeth and her mother to go out for lunch
Mother, it would be known, was not interested in speaking French. Of course she knew the language perfectly well and had taught her children enough that they would never struggle to understand any Parisian’s praise or scorn. Sitting in a café and acting as if she didn’t understand was only her idea of a good time, and she seemed to like it even more when Elizabeth was visibly uncomfortable.
She flagged the waiters down and asked for their preference on lunch, demanding to know the intricacies of every dish and correcting their English before choosing the opposite of whatever they recommended. The waiters scowled and hated her and one even spat at the back of her chair, and still she pretended not to know that they were wondering aloud to each other where a pig had found such unfashionable clothes.
Knowing that something like this was bound to happen, Elizabeth had chosen a café outside the neighborhood, but she was still ashamed to see the Parisians making note—literally, she observed with dismay, in little books. And it wasn’t just the waiters passing judgment, either. After Mother demanded ice in her water, one of the patrons took out his sketchpad and set to work on a series of comic illustrations, portraying in colored pencil the old woman styled as a needle and Elizabeth as her faithful haystack.
Mother was only getting started. She was in good humor, making the waiters repeat the tea service again. “Look at those gossips,” she said.
“Stop pointing, Mother, they can see you.”
“That one just said that he hopes there is enough room in Hell for the fat.” She laughed, licking her lips. “How I hate them!”
“You’re certainly breezy this morning,” Elizabeth said, hoping a subject change would distract her.
“My dear! You’re only as bad as you feel.”
“I was worried about you last night.” They had all been having a perfectly lovely dinner conversation about termites when Mother interrupted with a coughing fit, looking clammy and pale, as if she had risen from her own casket and come up for a meal. Making hasty apologies, she asked that the digestif be brought to her in bed, and she looked so bad that the maid wrapped a scarf around her own face before she went in with it. And now here she was, tucking into her second plate of bread and annoying the staff with her usual enthusiasm.
“Do you recall the principles of energy conservation?” Mother asked, spooning jam onto her plate. “Hopefully, you didn’t forget everything I taught you. The energy bounded by my body holds no rank over that which is found in trees and lightning, and other bodies, and in the air. I simply decided to pull my strength from these forces and heal myself in the cosmic world.” She leaned in confidentially. “I suspect if I can keep vigilant to this practice, I might never die. What do you think about that? Your sister might even have to see me, considering how I would be a miracle of science by then.”
“You’ve seen her plenty at meals, Dora.”
“And I’m only asking to be granted audience in her room, dear Elizabeth. Why doesn’t she want to spend any time with me?”
“She’s not sure you didn’t bring a pox with you on the Olympic. We have to be very careful. The illness on Corfu nearly put her down.”
“A pox on both your red rumps! I know them well. Please pass the butter.”
“You must give her time,” Elizabeth said. “After all she’s been through.”
“If she can make the arduous trip across the hall, I would appreciate it. My word, I might as well not have left Oakland.”
Elizabeth could picture the old house: bedrooms shuttered and barred, a single chair by the parlor window, a cup and saucer balanced beside the sink. As children, they had tried using one of the delicate cups from the tea set to cover a lamp in order to provide soft stage lighting, but they soon discovered that the hot glass had burned the china in a ring. Fearing a beating, Elizabeth buried it. She wondered if it was still in the side yard.
Mother stirred her coffee with a silver spoon that she slipped into her purse. “Can we talk about Max?”
“We cannot talk about Max.”
“My dear—uncross your legs, you’ll burst a vessel—I only want to present the argument, from the old-fashioned set, that if your man has not yet expressed the desire for marriage—also, your shoulder blades should find your chair, for posture and cardiovascular health—if your man doesn’t want to marry after all you’ve been through together, you may as well look elsewhere.”
“The fact that you’re lecturing me about marriage after everything Daddy put you through is a true shock.”
“You are forty-three years old.”
“I’m forty-two, and I’m—”
“And you’re old enough to know how to manage your life. And yet here I see poor posture, a bad diet, rejection of stability, and an ignorance of the daily benefit of routine.”
“Max and I are fostering a house of girls and preparing for an international tour, which means pursuing venues in New York, Chicago, and Moscow. We’re organizing the travel for a house full of performers and support staff, managing the instructors and curriculum of two schools, and planning a performance series through the end of the quarter.”
She made a face. “Why would you leave Europe?”
Elizabeth started to answer, but realized she didn’t have a good one. Isadora had suggested that she look into New York, and Elizabeth took it upon herself to make the inquiries, confused all the while, as Isadora had previously made her thoughts on the city clear.
“And so,” Mother said, “there’s no time for a wedding.”
“We are so legally and professionally entrenched in each other’s lives that neither of us has grounds for insecurity. There is no chance of dissolution, even if one or the other of us desperately wanted it.”
She grasped her daughter’s hand. “Anything in the world can fall, you know. That’s a lesson we learn from gravity.”
“I’m familiar with gravity, Mother.”
“But what about the law of universal gravitation?” She waved off a waiter who had arrived to curse her. “Every particle in the universe attracts every other particle with a force proportional to the product of their masses. You are composed of these particles, and he is the same, and the earth below you is the same, and it’s as simple as that.” She extracted the porcelain sugar spoon from its bowl and held it thoughtfully to her lips. “Laws of science are much more real than your funny thoughts and feelings could ever be.”
“I take it you’re still spending your afternoons with that old scientist?”
She tucked the spoon into her purse. “One would hope that you might also find a friend who offers you such comfort as Elias, who is not so very old. Will you look at those waiters? See how they line up and scuff their boots against the wall like boys. Come over here, misser, and bring the butter! Look at this roll. This is my body, broken for you.”
The waiter dropped the cheque and removed the silverware from the table.
“We need to go,” Elizabeth said, counting her coins. “Before they put a mouse in our kettle.”
“I’d be grateful for any flavor it lent this awful tea.”
“Come on, get your wrap.”
“But we aren’t done with our bread.” She pouted but obediently took Elizabeth’s arm. “Young people are so decadent,” she said, pressing her face against the matted fur of her daughter’s coat.
“I thought I wasn’t so young.”
“You are young at heart, my dear. Isn’t it wonderful to be young at heart?”
At the train station in Paris, Max and Trella go to greet a shipment of weights
Trella frowned, looking from the platform
clock to her own watch on its delicate silver chain. It was nestled between her blouse and her new leather gloves, which she had bought the week before as a treat to herself. Her watch was fast, and she set her bag down to adjust it.
“Don’t touch it,” Max said. “They’re slow.”
“But why?”
He shrugged. “Some Parisian mix of pride and incompetence.”
Trella accepted this without comment. She found it entertaining to pretend to be a bored aristocrat in situations such as this one, when things weren’t going her way, and it seemed as if Max was playing along without her even asking. “Their stations are clean enough,” she said. “I can say that much for France.”
They must have seemed a dour pair, looking often enough at the time to make it clear how little they cared for the chilly afternoon. She extracted a handkerchief from her bag, tucked it delicately around her nose, and blew.
Max watched her, enthralled at the way the embroidered wisp covered one little nostril and the other. He marveled at her productive exhalation. Anything could be beautiful from the proper source. He felt the sharp point of the silver nail file at the bottom of his coat pocket.
“It’s too bad they couldn’t deliver the weights directly to the school,” she said. Her dress was stylishly hemmed to the lower calf, revealing a length of stocking and a smart black boot. Despite the low rise of her shoe, she still stood a few inches taller than he did, and he was pleased to see her crouch a little in deference when she spoke.