The smallness of that little girl’s intentions was so enormous. A woman does not go out into the world to find a man and make a home; she prepares a home in her heart.
“Yes, you told me at the time.”
She builds her heart-home with twigs of memories, makes mortar of passion, constructs walls from clouds of detail. Only when it is finished does she invite a man inside to share it.
“And now your heart is wounded, sealed forever against me. Is that what you are trying to tell me tonight?”
No. My naked feet are bound by rusted wire and thorny roses, red blooms press against my ankles.
“Are you drinking absinthe again?”
Do you remember my white feet, the toenails painted red?
“Of course I remember! I’m the one who always painted your nails. Those were my ten greatest masterpieces. When the paint was dry I parted each toe like the petals of a blossom and—”
You kissed them.
“Sucked them. But you’re trying to distract me. Answer. Are you drinking again? You know you must not do that because of the baby.”
What baby? I never told you about a baby.
“You did—in the letters you never sent to me. Now you’re confusing me.”
Lucretia doesn’t drink absinthe.
“And what about Louise?”
She’s drunk and the wind is at her door.
“What about the baby, Louise?”
Do you hear the howling?
“Tell me before it’s too late! I’ll come! Let me into your home!”
There is no baby.
“What do you mean? What are you saying?”
Howling.
Village of Reigne
The wind stopped.
Francisco, did you actually speak to me last night as I was writing to you? I thought I heard your voice. I hid the letter after writing it, hid it so well that even I can’t find it this morning. I’m not sure now what you know about me—what I have or have not told you. Did I tell you Madame Happy spat on me?
I was on my way to meet Royer. It was late and I was trying to avoid being caught out after the eight-o’clock curfew. I passed Madame Happy’s shop just as she was locking up. She turned and caught a glimpse of me by surprise. Many others were rushing around, trying to beat the curfew as well. I did not want to appear rude by hurrying past without a polite hello to Madame, so I stopped, smiled with a courteous bow, and inquired as to her well-being.
“Slut,” she hissed. The people on the street were startled.
My first thought was that she could see I was pregnant, despite my layers of bulky clothing. After all, Madame Happy made a living off expectant mothers. But from the look of her own clothes—once regal, now frayed—it was apparent she wasn’t making much of a living at all. In a land where the economy feeds the death machine, people don’t have the means to lavish their meager savings on clothing for an uncertain future.
“Slut!” She shouted so loudly this time that curious bystanders moved quickly away, not wanting to give her a fresh target.
I couldn’t move. I felt shamed. But why? Why should Madame Happy, a pillar of bourgeois respectability, act so vicious? Was it because she knew I was pregnant, yet wasn’t buying anything from her shop? Did she think my failure to do so would put her out of business if others followed suit? I wanted to tell her that I would love to purchase my baby’s first clothes from her shop of exquisite finery, but I couldn’t. I had no money. I had to make everything for my baby, even though I had no skill at sewing. As a matter of fact I often looked into Madame’s shop window after closing hour. The fuzzy booties and colorful cashmere gowns, I wanted them all. But my child would have to make do with clothing I made myself. Of course I couldn’t say any of this to Madame Happy, because I was still guarding the secret of my condition. I sympathized with her fear that “modern” girls like me would put her out of business, but I resented her for humiliating me.
It seemed strange for her to call me a slut, yet it fit with the tenor of the time, the war, and the need to take control of the personal—for the impersonal could not be controlled. One simply had to choose a side and stick to it, preferably in public. So she tried to shame me. I turned to leave; there was nothing left to say.
Before I took two steps she caught me by the arm. I spun around to give her a piece of my mind. As I opened my mouth to speak she slapped me. The force of her hand against my cheekbone nearly knocked me down.
“Slut!” She spat on me and walked away.
No one in the street offered to help. They kept their distance, their heads bent down as they shuffled away.
Why? Why had Madame Happy gone out of her way to insult me? Was it simply the frustration of the war? Had she just heard that someone close to her had been killed? No. I knew the answer: she was choosing her side and making a public display of it. Somehow word must have reached her about my resistance activities. She despised me for them. She despised the Lucretia in me. I hurried along the now deserted street, with its shuttered windows, to my meeting with Royer.
When I reached the post office it too was shuttered. I tried the door, but found it locked. I stood there, not knowing what to do. I had come so far; I couldn’t just leave. Then from behind the door I heard the muffled sound of a single voice, followed by the roar of a crowd that thundered as if from a great distance.
What could this be? Was Royer having a meeting behind closed doors? If so, he must have half the men of the village with him, given the volume of muffled chants and yells rising again. I pounded on the heavy wooden door. It was after curfew and I would have to make my way back to Reigne in the dark. What was going on? Was Royer having a meeting and locking me out? Why were so many men inside? Never in our meetings were there more than five, seven at most. This was crazy; they were making no attempt to keep their voices down. I pounded one last time. The sound of voices from inside died away. I heard footsteps, then a key in the lock, and the door opened. Royer stood in the narrow crack of light, holding a finger to his lips. But why should I be quiet? All the noise was coming from inside. He pulled me quickly in and locked the door. I looked around. Where was everyone? There was no one here except Royer. Did I really hear what I thought I heard?
Royer was silent. He slipped a cigarette package from his jacket pocket, tapped one out and lit up. I could tell from the scent that it was not one of those ersatz cigarettes everyone choked on, trying to pretend they were inhaling real tobacco—this was real tobacco. Royer sighed and blew a pungent cloud of smoke into my face. Where did he get real cigarettes? They were impossible to come by. Probably one of the mothers whose son’s letters had been lost gave the cigarettes to Royer, hoping for a miracle. I really did despise him. And if we had not been thrown by chance onto the same side in this mess of a war, I certainly would have indulged my temptation to end his odious existence. But as it was I knew the risks he took, his bravery. Maybe after the war the statue of himself that Royer wanted so badly would be erected in the town square.
“You’re late,” he whispered.
“You’re lucky I’m here. They told me in Nice I wasn’t to be sent on missions until after my baby was born.” I looked around the post office again, thinking perhaps those whose voices I had heard earlier were somehow hidden behind counters and desks, just waiting for the word from Royer to reappear.
“You believe all we want is to use you. On the contrary, I thought you might be interested in retrieving the packet of letters I have for you.”
“From Zermano?”
“Yes, of course. Who else knows you’re hiding here? Come with me.” He led me back into his office and took the letters from a drawer in his desk. He handed them over. “You’ve done a lot for us. You deserve these. You’ve earned them.”
“You almost got me killed more than once. What if I had waited by that Citroën in Nice after setting the basket down?”
“I knew you would follow the orders exactly. You’ve proven you can do that. It was very simple really.”
> “Try it yourself sometime.”
“There’s nothing you’ve done that I haven’t done.”
“You didn’t do it while you were pregnant.”
He blew another blue cloud in my face. “So you’ve met the Fly.”
“Quite an introduction.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“How could I possibly know where he is? I don’t even know who he is.”
“No one knows who he is.”
“I think he followed me.”
“When?”
“After Nice. He was chasing my train.”
“That’s unlikely. Why would our most important agent risk capture by following your train right after he assassinated—”
“Who? Who did he assassinate? Who did I assassinate?”
“It’s not important who the players are.”
“It’s important to me.”
“Keep your focus. The who is not important, just the why.” Royer watched as I tucked the packet of letters into my basket. “That is your why. You’ve already made your choice.”
“Love.”
“Then why aren’t you with your love?”
I turned to go.
“Wait, I’ve got something.”
“And I told you I’m not doing any more missions until my baby is born. I won’t risk it.”
“It’s just a message to deliver, but it’s important. First let me show you something.” He flipped over a newspaper that lay on his desk. A blurred photo on the front page showed a man in black on a speeding motorcycle; a helmet and goggles obscured his face. The headline read: Reward for Captain in Army of Crime.
“I’m astonished to see this. Normally our exploits pass unmentioned in the newspapers. Even if we blow up a troop train they keep it a secret, trying to deny our impact. Why this?”
“Because the Eagle hunts the Fly out in the open. How embarrassing for the Eagle.”
“Why?”
“They show their vulnerability. We are hurting them.”
“We hurt them and they scream—yet they cut off our arms and legs and we cannot shed a tear.”
“They must not know they hurt us. That is what makes us strong.”
“I don’t want to be strong. I just want to go home.”
“All of France wants to go home, Louise. The trouble is that it’s not our house anymore.”
“Don’t give me a patriotic speech. I told you, I’m out for now, I won’t be used.”
“A shepherd always begins his journey on a full moon.”
“I told you, no. I’m not going to be at one of those drops again. It’s too dangerous.”
“A shepherd does not graze his flock in the same pasture every day. You don’t have to be there. We want you to be near. To report that everything went all right. That the lamb has fallen into the shepherd’s arms.”
“Wherever I am it’s too near, I’m always in the middle. You’ve proven that.”
“I promise you—this time you will not be in the middle. You will be on your own, there will be no others. Your job is just to wait, watch, and report. In fact, under no circumstances are you even to speak to anyone. The only person you may speak to is the Fly, and only if something goes wrong.”
“The Fly is the shepherd?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“How will I know I’m talking to the real Fly? All his features are covered. He even wears gloves; no skin shows at all.”
“Don’t worry, even I don’t know the true identity of the Fly. But I know the code.”
“I’m not saying I will do as you ask. But if I do, if a shepherd begins his journey on a full moon, what must I know?”
“THUNDER IN MARCH MEANS GOOD ALMONDS.”
“And how will he respond?”
“WHY DO YOU HUNT CICADAS?”
“And what will I say?”
“BECAUSE THEY SUCK THE SAP OF THE ALMOND TREES AS THEY SING.”
I fell silent. Now I knew the code, but I did not know if I would ever use it.
Royer watched to see if I would give a sign of assent. He noticed the drip of spittle that still clung to the front of my coat. “How did you get that?”
“Madame Happy. She just approached me in the street, called me a slut, and spat.”
“I can’t imagine her doing that. She’s the most conservative woman in town.”
“Maybe that’s why she did it. Maybe she suspects my involvement with the cause. Maybe she fears I’m a threat to the town and will bring reprisals down on the heads of everyone.”
“Impossible! If she knew of your involvement, then she would know of mine.”
“Maybe she has already informed on us.”
“We would have been arrested.”
“Not if they were trying to get to the leader. Not if they were trying to get to the Fly.”
Royer sucked the last of his cigarette down to an ember between his nicotine-stained fingers and mumbled, “As if I don’t have enough to worry about already! How could that old pot of bone marrow have found out? There’s not a move we make that isn’t somehow betrayed.” He seemed to forget I was there. He reached down and turned up the volume of the radio on his desk.
The strange muffled roar I had heard earlier leapt back into the room. A crowd was chanting intoxicated approval of a piercing voice that rose higher and higher, chasing its own cadence to a breathless summit. When the voice reached the summit, the crowd went wild again. The voice continued, powered not by breath but by audacity of will. I couldn’t understand the language the voice was speaking, but I visualized the hysteria exploding each syllable as the voice urged the crowd to follow.
Royer was transfixed. Obviously he understood the language spoken by France’s new emperor. Why was he so involved with the speech? I quietly let myself out, closing the door against the ranting crowd, and started walking the darkened streets. Of course, Royer had to listen to the speech in order to know what was coming. Even more clever was the fact that he listened without trying to hide it. By doing so he knew that some townspeople would consider him a traitor. But others, like Madame Happy, would think, “If Royer listens to the new emperor he surely can’t be sympathetic to the resistance. Royer is not a man to be spat upon!”
Village of Reigne
My Dearest Love,
I don’t know what is happening, but suddenly I get so tired. Last night I fell asleep over your letter with my pen still in hand. I was trying to tell you something important. Be patient, I’m almost there. It is such a difficult story to tell, a confession really.
Before I fell asleep I was talking of Royer and his pressure on me to stay involved. That he gave me the treasure of your new letters, and did not try to bribe me with them, came as a surprise. Perhaps he is appealing to my patriotism. It could be that he wants to see if I will act without being motivated by my love for you—to get more letters. Perhaps he needs to know how far I will go, how far I can be pushed, how much I can be trusted, so that he can use me in some ultimate sacrifice.
Certainly no one else seems to trust me. Sometimes I think I am the only one in the middle, while conspiracy swirls all around. But am I truly in the middle? Probably only for the children who are in my charge at school. They turn to me for calm and guidance, unaware that the same woman cries alone at night, reading your letters over and over—as if that very act could make you appear, arise and walk from the words on the page, into my home, into my bed.
The children cling to me. When the Officer from the cherry orchard arrived at our school with his armed soldiers, the children looked to me for courage. The Officer himself looked upon me, not at me, without acknowledging we had ever met before. He stared suspiciously at my chalked lesson notes on the blackboard, studying them as if they were coded directions on how to assemble a sten gun. The children were afraid to look at him, I think both because of their intrinsic fear and because of the jagged red scar covering his right cheek. It was the scar I left when I bit his cheek on the Day of the Bee
s.
He commanded the children to stand and empty their pockets. I could not protest, for to do so would certainly arouse suspicion. I clapped my hands, startling the children who were frozen with fear, and turned the Officer’s request into a game.
“Whoever has in their pocket a photograph of Marshal Pétain shall be given an extra chocolate ration.”
The Officer glared at me. “That’s not what I’m looking for.”
“Don’t worry, children. It’s what I’m looking for.”
The children rose and hurriedly emptied their pockets, giggling with expectation. It is funny how children are: even though they know they don’t have what you want they still believe in their own magic, so they go through the exercise certain that somehow they will miraculously produce the searched-for object. Out of the children’s pockets and onto their desks poured all kinds of oddities, trinkets, and keepsakes—yellowed marbles, smoothed stones, small crucifixes, and a Star of David pin.
The Officer walked between the aisles as his men kept guard along the wall, their fingers on the triggers of their rifles as if expecting one of the children to pull a grenade from his pocket and toss it at them.
The Officer looked down at every desk, surveying the secrets from each pocket. He stopped at the desk of the child with the Star of David and picked up the shiny pin. The boy at the desk fixed his terrified eyes on me; I was his lifeline to safety.
I threw the boy a rope. “The pin doesn’t belong to him.”
The Officer turned to me. “I suppose you are going to tell me it belongs to you.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are Jewish?”
“No. But I gave it to him. We are studying different religions in our history class.”
The Officer fingered the pin with disdain. “What right have you to teach this kind of subversive history?”
“The right to teach the Bible. It’s not on the list of censored books.”
The Officer stepped up to me, his face flushed, the red scar on his cheek stood out prominently. “You think you are very clever. Maybe I should pin this star on your chest.”
I quickly unbuttoned the top of my sweater, exposing my neck. “Go ahead. It will go with this.”
The Day of the Bees Page 18