Royer is a monster dressed in the boring cloak of normalcy. He has itchy fingers and a nose always twitching to find a morsel overlooked. He has a large appetite and an ambitious wife, all of which must be accommodated on his tiny paycheck in this most austere of times. He mistakes my fear of being discovered as timidity, and believes I am a woman in distress who won’t protest his fingers lingering on her shoulder while he chivalrously guides her out the door of the post office. His fingers itch to feel more, his dull eyes pop open as if he is about to be served a delicious meal. He watches me walk away from the post office clutching your letters. Sometimes he follows me through the twisting streets. He keeps a careful distance behind me, avoiding curious passersby and suspicious soldiers. He doesn’t want to be caught following me any more than he wants you to discover me. He wants me all to himself, he wants my secret to be his secret. He knows who you are, he knows your fame. He sees the name and return address on your letters to me and believes he is going to taste the best meal of his life. He follows me with nostrils flaring, like those men who surrounded me that Day of the Bees, when you fell to your knees before me, nearly crippled. What those men did to you terrified me more than the Officer holding the knife to my throat in the cherry orchard. Perhaps if I had not intervened, and you had smashed the Officer with the tire iron, then what happened later with the bees would never have occurred and we would not now be separated.
I wonder why so much violence surrounds us. Does it surround all lovers, is it lurking in the shadows? Do people in love attract violent thoughts from a world that cannot love? I wonder about this while you are fresh in my thoughts. Why do I feel a subdued anger when I see two lovers kissing, caressing in the street, oblivious to all except each other? Why is my heart seized by the jealous thought of nullifying their happiness as mine has been nullified? I feel the weight of jealousy in my hands. I let it go. It is a stone dropping on a butterfly, crushing the lovers. What a shameless way to think. I should defend the lovers, I am of their tribe. I should protect their short kisses from withering in life’s harsh realities. I should run to them, throw my arms around them, bind them together, but I do not. The real reason people cry at weddings is because they are ashamed of their jealousy.
Royer wants to follow me home. He wants to discover me in my bedroom. He wants me undressed. He wants to exact a price for sharing my secret. I always manage to lose him in our game of cat and mouse after leaving the post office, but we both know that someday I will be caught. One way or another I shall have to pay the price of guarding you, keeping you to myself through your letters. Royer knows the longer this continues, the more he stands to gain.
When I close my eyes to sleep I know I will not have the chance to cry at my own wedding.
LOUISE
Atelier Quai St.-Michel
Paris
What a train ride to Paris! A trip normally done in one day took three. We were constantly being sidetracked to allow other trains to pass. The military trains were painted in some army engineer’s idea of camouflage. This war was started by a house painter, it seems his clumsy mark touches everything. My identification papers were checked over and over, but no one looked me in the eye. No one ever looks anyone in the eye, it’s as if everyone is in a trance. I think this is because people believe that if the situation suddenly turned murderous, then nothing personal would be lost. Actually, it already has been lost.
So much of what we love in Paris is gone. Yet what pains me most is that you are gone. I’ve turned into a ghost myself, haunting the streets and bridges we once walked. An ominous fog hangs over the city even on its brightest day. I cannot distinguish if the world has gone to hell on its own, or if life without you is the hell I have been condemned to. I cannot even tell if there is a war on, because my life has been turned off. The one saving grace is that our atelier has escaped substantial harm and I am now living in it, sleeping on a mattress on the floor among the paintings. They seem to date from another time, painted by another person, their origins obscured. Because they were made when you were with me I trace their surfaces, hoping to feel the inspiration that brought them into being.
It has been so hard to paint, so hard to sleep, night sirens in the streets, dreaming of you. In the morning my hands shake. I look through the dusty windows of the atelier. The waters of the Seine slice beneath the bridge below me. Across the river, perched on the tower of Cathedral Sainte-Chapelle, the twelve stone apostles stand guard against the madness in the streets below. On the peak of the steeple above the apostles the Angel Gabriel blows his golden horn. Gabriel’s marble wings are not intended for flight. His job is one of witness and warning. I take Gabriel’s warning seriously. His graceful trumpet bends to the shape of a bow, an arrow is released from the bow, flying through my heart. The arrow continues its flight and falls at your feet. When you stoop to retrieve it the arrow flutters, turning into a dove. You hold the dove in your hands, not knowing whether to release it and return to me what I have lost. You bring the feathered body to your lips, look into its eyes and see me here in my humility, my empty hands shaking, unable to create. What right have I to swim in such self-pity? Outside my window, in the concrete fields of the city, men are contemplating the final destruction. What right have I to moan about my emotional debasement? What right other than the right of the betrayed? Like revolution, love betrays itself first. If only I had known the nature of that betrayal before it was too late!
I stare at my shaking hands, these hands of a strangler or a creator, which must be harder than any stone they chisel, more fragile than any heart they break, softer than the curves of any flesh they caress. These hands of a man gone mad, tearing at yellow, tearing at the sun. Behind it is your face, your eyes seeing into my eyes in the eyes of the dove. I am painting again. The dip of brush in oils, strokes across canvas. I am tearing at blue, the sky rips. I am melding gold, the moon spills. I am fusing hues, rainbows flame. I am shaping the object, projecting the essence, moving through form, sailing through sky. White clouds are billowing. I see you there among the women of Europe, sheltering against each other’s naked bodies, guarding hearts from men suited for war. I paint a path to you through bombs opening graceful as flowers, through graves birthing babies with musical mouths, through voices tumbling bright as cherished toys in the wind. Across the waters of the Seine the Angel Gabriel watches me try to accomplish my journey in an eight-by-twelve-foot canvas, which in the end will be nothing like my original vision. The Angel blows his horn into the eye of a dimming Paris sky. Art from chaos? Chaos from art? Absurd! Gabriel blows the truth. How naked a fool is when clothed only in his ideas.
Louise, I trust you will read this and forgive me, the betrayer on his knees. I would take your feet in my hands and wash them with my tears if that would bring you back to me. Now I know why Christ wept, washing the feet of Mary Magdalene. Her feet were two fish swimming away in his sea of tears, the passion and love he could never have. He held her feet but not her heart. I do not want to make that mistake. I want you to see me exposed. I hide behind nothing. What’s the use in a useless light? I am no Christ meant for suffering. I am your Columbus. I’ll take any new world you will give me.
FRANCISCO
Village of Reigne
My darling Columbus, how you make me homesick for you, how you break my heart with your honest talk. I admire you for not fearing to be the fool. The fool in love is a courageous captain, he sails a sea without a shore. So you are my Columbus, always.
You say so much of what we loved is gone from Paris. What is lost are only the simplest things. If only I could tell you what has been found here, how quickly you would come to me. But you could not see it in my eyes that night driving from Nice.
In your letters you dwell on certain events that now seem to have happened long ago. These events have the distant murmur of history. I know how troublesome things are now, just by the amount of time it takes for a letter to reach Ville Rouge from Paris. It is a wonder there is mail service at al
l. I am searching for something important to my survival in your letters. What a fierce taskmaster memory proves to be! I am not living for yesterday, I am trying to make peace with the present. With my sudden departure and cruel silence I hope to kill your love for me. But my actions are contrary to what is in my heart.
It becomes more and more difficult for me to get your letters. Soldiers are everywhere. The journey from my home to Ville Rouge is treacherous, and when I do arrive there is always the twitchy Royer to deal with. A war of distrust is also being waged. Who is on one side, who on the other? Who collaborates? Who resists? Does anyone really know? I seek my solitary comforts. I have your letters. I have your paintings surrounding me. At night the mistral beats against the door of my cottage. Some nights I go to the door thinking it is you knocking. Even though I fear it, I want it to be true. But when I open the door and peer into the darkness, you are not there. Each morning when I wake I wonder, will there be a letter for me today? The bridge to Ville Rouge has been blown up. Suspicion hangs in the air, everyone is under surveillance, secret judgments are being passed. I have learned it does not take two people to make a war. One can be at war with oneself in one’s own heart.
Last week something unnerving took place, an encounter that involved the Bee Keeper. I know you don’t want to hear anything about him, but since he saved us both that day in the mountains I thought you should hear this. As usual I had gone to Ville Rouge to see if there were letters from you. Royer was behind his desk in the post office. When he saw me he sniffed the air to determine if this was the day the table would be set for him, the meal served. It was not difficult for him to see the state of anticipation I was in. He ceremoniously presented a packet of your letters. My hands trembled. Touching the envelopes I was touching you again, even though it was just paper—for inside were your thoughts. I was holding your thoughts. Royer ballooned up in front of me, puffy and eager, a pushy boy needing to be pushed away. He licked the corners of his lips, his body moved closer to mine. “Mademoiselle was expecting these intimate little notes?”
I did not answer. I never open your letters in front of him; that would be sacrilege. I quickly slipped the letters into my purse.
“Perhaps Mademoiselle should read her correspondence now, before waiting to go home. There could be good news inside she could share with Monsieur Royer. Good news from Paris.”
“Thank you.” I served my words to him sunny as two eggs on a platter. I had to flatter him; he has the power to cut me off from you.
“Mademoiselle might consider an apéritif at the café before returning home? She could relax and read these intimacies at her leisure while giving Monsieur Royer the pleasure of her company. I myself am a married man and offer this invitation in all sincerity. As a public servant I am ready to assist. These are rude times. A mademoiselle must be careful with whom she is seen. A mademoiselle must not appear to be one who cannot be trusted by public authorities. She must not give the impression she is one who conspires.”
“Conspires?”
“Conspires against what is correct.”
“And what is correct?”
Royer looked through the window at the soldiers with rifles guarding the City Hall across the street. “That is what is correct.”
“I must be leaving.”
“I can offer you a ride? As a postal official I am entitled to petrol for my auto. How else would the mail arrive? How else would you obtain your letters, your precious Paris letters?”
“How else?”
“If Mademoiselle accepts my offer of a ride she is being very correct. It is unwise to be on the roads alone with so much danger lurking about.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I have many tasks to attend to before returning home. I wouldn’t want to waste the time of such an important public official on a woman’s trivial errands.”
“On the contrary, I would be honored to accompany you. I am incapable of being bored in the presence of such an enchantress. Perhaps we might drive to a private place in the country and read your little intimacies together?”
The sudden expression on my face was enough to cause Royer to shut his twitchy little mouth. He understood that if he ever opened one of your letters he would close me off to him forever. Not that I was open to him, except in his own mind, which is where I wanted to keep it.
When I left the post office Royer followed. This was not unusual. I always used different tricks to lose him. Once I sought out a boulangerie with a long line of people waiting for their ration of bread. When I arrived at the front of the line I pretended I had forgotten my ration book, then returned to the back of the line. Royer was forced to race home to his wife, or risk his lechery being exposed in a bakery. Sometimes Royer was easy to lose, sometimes not. He was always crafty and persistent.
After leaving the post office Royer followed me through the streets. I sought refuge in Madame Happy’s shop, which sold only baby clothes. I was certain Royer would not follow me in. He would appear out of place and risk gossip as to why he was there. But in he came, the little bell above the door tinkling as he entered. Madame Happy turned her attention from me and announced his name with great familiarity.
“Ahhh, Monsieur Roooyeer! I haven’t had the pleasure in years. What wonderful news do you bring? Does this visit mean you and Madame Royer are very happy together?”
Royer pretended not to see me hiding behind Madame Happy’s formidable figure.
“Yes, Madame Royer and I are happy. No health problems. Although Madame Royer does have a little touch of the—”
“But the two of you are still like lovebirds?”
“Lovebirds twittering in the treetops.”
“That’s why I am in business! I dress the little fledglings of happiness. Even in these uncertain times happiness can fly through your window when least expected. One must not forget that. Without happiness there is no Madame Happy’s baby shop. I owe it all to you, Monsieur. Your happiness is Madame Happy’s success.”
“Thank you, Madame. I’m only a simple postal official, but postal officials have dreams of happiness too.” Royer poked his head around her, attempting to sneak a look at me.
“Ahhh, poetically stated. When may I be expecting the little bundle of happiness?”
“Little bundle? Oh yes, I mean, oh no. Madame Royer is not the reason I am here.”
Madame Happy was affronted, huffing herself up to a mountain of probity. “If you are not here for Madame Royer, then what earthly reason would bring you through my door? This is a very specialized shop!”
“Certainly most special.”
“Then why are you here?” Madame Happy sensed a scandal ruinous to her good reputation. She wanted no part of it.
Royer backed toward the door, caught in his own trap. His mouth opened, gasping for a plausible way out. “My niece in Nice!”
“Your niece in Nice?”
“She is so happy. Her husband is so happy. Madame Royer is so happy. That is why I am here, to tell you how happy everyone is.”
“In that case,” Madame Happy aimed her nose down the mountain of her considerable self, targeting the sweating prey at the door, “you have entered the land of happiness. Might I show the honorable monsieur the latest fashion in christening gowns? I have chiffons fit for an angel, pinks and blues, ruffles and bows, all silk-lined from cap to booties.”
“Exactly what I came to see! You are a mind reader.” Royer bowed his head and stretched his hands out, as if expecting the clamp of handcuffs.
“I am interested only in happiness.” The handcuffs clicked shut.
Royer rolled his eyes as Madame opened drawers and boxes, proudly displaying her arsenal of dainty baptismal garments. I slipped past them to the door, its bell tinkling behind as I made my escape. My own happiness was in my purse, your packet of letters.
When I was safely beyond Ville Rouge I still did not open your letters, fearing someone would apprehend me, discover my true identity and read the words you had writte
n. I never took your letters from my purse until I was secure within the stone walls of my cottage. Even when halfway up the road back to Reigne, past the vineyards, the orchards, the last farmer’s house, when it seemed safe to open the letters, I did not. I waited, afraid the sun itself could read over my shoulder, stealing my secret. Which is why I was startled to hear a commotion on the normally deserted road. I thought the shouting had to do with me, that the soldiers tensely pointing their rifles were part of a trap set by Royer to expose my identity. Soldiers stood along both sides of the road leading up into the hills. One of them approached, motioning me to stop with his pistol.
It was the Officer from the cherry orchard. He showed no sign that he knew me, or that he remembered that Day of the Bees, when you were clubbed in the knees and brought to the ground before me. The Officer’s face stiffened as he ordered me to open my purse. I obeyed. He watched, irritated. He grabbed the purse and flipped it over. Your letters spilled into the dirt. The Officer pushed at them carefully with the tip of his boot, as if they were explosives set to go off at any moment. He turned back to me. “Do you have anything on your person?”
I held my purse open to him like a beggar, showing that it was empty.
“I see that it’s empty. Do you think I’m a fool? Maybe you are hiding something under your dress?”
The other soldiers were watching. I spoke in a low voice to the Officer. “Why don’t you have a look? You already did once. Do you want all the others to know just what kind of a look you’ve had? Do you want me to shout it out to them?”
The stiff expression on the Officer’s face did not change. He swiftly bent down and gathered up the letters, then stuffed them into my purse. “Last night an electrical transformer coming from Ville Rouge was sabotaged. If you see anything unusual I want you to report it directly to me at the town hall. Do you understand that?”
The Day of the Bees Page 6