iron maiden
the widow smiles at Madeleine, and rising from her seat, gestures for the girl to follow. Together they disappear inside the widow’s chambers, where the drapery falls behind them with the soft, deadly sound of snow sliding off a roof. The last thing the performers see is Madeleine’s scornful glance, trained on them as she turns back, before the curtains envelop her: You are cowardly, all of you, she remonstrates. I had a plan! In silence the performers imagine terrible things. No one has ever entered the private rooms of the widow.
in the chambers of the widow
the curtains open onto a darkened hallway, so dark that she must run her fingertips along the walls, and at die end of it, there are more curtains, as dense and velvety as the first. Then there is a warm room, with walls the color of pomegranates, where she is given toast with raisins, told to take off her shoes, placed before the fire on a footstool. And above her, on the mantelpiece, is a miniature circus made all of tin, with its stiff pennants flying and its elephants parading. Am I too old for this, Madeleine wonders, because she would like to touch it, to see if the lion tamer s arms move in his sockets, or if there is a key she can turn, releasing music. She would also like to unbutton the dress of the waxy doll standing aloof in the corner; slide her hands over the sad, long face of the wooden horse; ask for two more pieces of toast. Then she remembers: I am in trouble. Also: 1 can neither button nor unbutton. But the widow does not seem angry in the least. When she speaks, it is in a coaxing and conspiratorial tone that Madeleine is starded to recognize, and all at once the pull of the horse, the perfect circus, becomes stronger: for the widow — of course— is a grandmother, and these belong to her grandchildren, and Madeleine is not indifferent to the strange magnetism exercised by other children’s things.
beatific
the widow says: I, too, feel sympathy for M. Pujol. Madeleine studies her toast. There are three raisins remaining clustered like a birthmark, and the crust, which isn’t burnt. The widow says, So you must not think that I am unfriendly, Is it better to take many small bites, that taste almost of nothing, or to devour it all at once, and feel regret? The widow persists, I might even understand why you won’t do as I ask. Crunch. Then no more. Is it perhaps because, the widow ventures, you have fallen— The crust catches on its way down. Madeleine turns colors, throws her fist against her chest. He reminds me of my favorite saint, she gasps. Who is your favorite? the widow asks. Let me guess, she adds, leaning closer: Sebastian. Saint Michel, Madeleine says, recovered. In the cathedral, in my town, there is a picture of him in the window. M. Pujol looks exacdy like him, except M. Pujol wears a moustache. And remembering what they taught her at the convent, she folds her paddles neatly in her lap. But unlike Michel, the widow says, M. Pujol has not been restored to his former beauty and perfection. He remains wretched. So the widow is familiar with the excesses of the saints. And for that reason, she murmurs, you wish to spare him. Madeleine nods. She believes herself saved. For the widow has turned her back to Madeleine, as though in deference to her argument, and is now fingering the small figures on her mantelpiece. From her stool, Madeleine contemplates her own piety. Very softly, the widow says: You are mistaken. And whispering to the tiny circus, she says: He moans like a man in pain. But what you must understand is that you comfort him with your blows. Turning towards Madeleine, she hands her the lion tamer in his tight scarlet trousers. Madeleine grips him unsafely in her mitts and discovers it is true: his arms move, as do his well-shaped legs, and his head; all of him moves, with terrible pliancy. Even his wrist, flicking his tiny lash, twists on an invisible screw. You are attending to his wounds, the widow murmurs. You are ministering, with your maimed hands, to his every suffering. Inside Madeleine something trembles, then falls into place with a thud. Like the abbot at Rievaulx, she says dully. The plash of water in a bowl, the wringing of cloths— Exactly, says the widow, who again offers her lovely smile, and places her hand lighdy upon Madeleine’s head: You are filled with kindness.
unlike
it is rare that the widow experiences surprise. But when the girl leaps from the stool, threatening the teacups, and gnaws her lips in agony, and roughly returns the lion tamer to the mantelpiece, his limbs all askew, and at last announces — I am not like the abbot— careless of how she strews crumbs everywhere, the widow is taken aback. I am more like Michel, the girl says, before she struggles her way into the heavy curtains, without waiting to be dismissed. Michel! she shrieks, with all the fury and astonishment of one usurped.
shrubbery
the priest addresses his flock with affection. My children, he says, and feels a sudden strange yearning of heart, for indeed they are like children, stirring in their seats, nudging the warm sides of their neighbors, marking time, he is sure, through all manner of small devices. See how the chemist, with his bemused expression, calculates the amount of emetic he should order in the coming week. The mayor’s lips barely move as he rehearses the difficult conversation he must have with his daughter. While the captain of the gendarmes, he closes his eyes and dreams. But the girls — look at them — their concentration is ferocious. They nod over their prayer books. Their heads touch. They follow the words with their fingers. How sober, and upright, and fine they appear, like a stand of young trees growing in the midst of untended shrubbery. They are the first to echo him: Amen. Their low, sweet voices sound all at once, in perfect agreement.
prayer
beneath Beatrice’s finger: the word Handmaid. And then: Unto. Her finger drifts to the bottom of the page: Shall. And rests upon the word: House. H-U-S-H, Sophie spells, shivering in her excitement.
hush
behind the heavy curtains, all is quiet. Madeleine pauses, there at the end of the passageway, and listens: where is the sound of Charlotte’s bow, tapping absently against the floor, and the murmur of Marguerite’s disparagements? The swish of stockinged feet, the clanking of canisters against the little wagon, and the sigh of the drawing-room windows being pulled shut after the last cigarette has been flicked onto the lawn? The secret, languid sound of the performers laughing, unobserved? Madeleine had hoped to burst through the curtains, ablaze with her anger, frightening the others and making them feel small They would freeze; they would stare at her. They would be struck, as if with Marguerite’s wooden sword, by the sight of Madeleine, enraged. So she had thought as she came rushing down the hall. But now she halts, uncertain, thwarted by this peculiar silence. Not a silence, exactly; a peculiar hush: for it does not sound as if the drawing room is empty, but rather that those inside have grown suddenly quiet. Madeleine gets the uncomfortable feeling that were she to enter, were she to throw back the drapery and storm through, it would be an intrusion.